Bird's Flight
by anthems
Summary: And to his surprise, she looked upon him with steely Tully blue eyes, unflinching. And she said that she would go. - Blackwater divergence AU in which Sansa accepts the Hound's offer to bring her home to her family.
1. Flight

Author's Note

Hello all! I've been fascinated with the Sansa Stark/Sandor Clegane pairing for awhile now, based partially on the way their interactions are written in the books and partially on some truly amazing fanfiction I've read. Finally, I've decided that I want to try my hand at writing some fanfiction of my own! This is a Blackwater departure AU in which Sansa accepts the Hound's offer to bring her to her family. I know it's not the most creative plot idea in the world, but I do find the topic so compelling that I want to try it out anyways! It should be rather slow-burn and my ultimate goal is to keep everyone as true to character as possible. The universe is a mix of the books and the television show, but there are definitely a few things I want to get out of the way right away.

First of all, Sandor is his book age, about twenty-seven. Although I do love the way he is portrayed in the show (Rory Mccann is a great actor!), he's cast a little old for my tastes, and he isn't written that old in the books. My vision of him (and also of Sansa) is most closely matched by all the Sansan art made by the talented Bubug. If you haven't seen anything she's made, I highly, highly recommend that you look her art up. Also, I've aged Sansa up to sixteen or seventeen because the age gap is a little too much for me otherwise.

That's about all for now, I believe! Reviews are seriously appreciated, as I'm always looking to improve my writing. Also, I'm not sure how frequently I'll update it but as it's a topic that I'm fascinated with, I'm sure that it will eventually be completed. Many thanks if you're still reading!

* * *

SANSA

In spite of what Joffrey and his mother were wont to say, Sansa Stark knew that she wasn't stupid. Naïve, perhaps, and at many times foolish, but not stupid. Never stupid.

But as she sat clinging to the Hound's middle, her fingernails catching desperately at the rough material of his jerkin, her thighs saddle-sore, she wondered if maybe she was just a stupid little girl after all. She knew that a more cautious girl wouldn't have done what she had, but Sansa had been desperate.

Even from her bedchamber high in the Red Keep she had heard the screams and roars of the battle below. The air had been thick with the scent of ash and blood and sweat, rising up from below and filling her nose and mouth and eyes until her face was awash with salty tears and her throat was heavy and itchy. Cersei's words still rang in her ears as she bolted the wooden door of her bedchamber, and she had been so distracted that she hadn't even noticed the Hound, hulking and stinking of wine, perched on her bed.

He had been bloody and wild-eyed. He had pressed the sharp, cool edge of his dagger into the skin of her neck. But still, remembering the fire in Cersei's cruel eyes and hearing the cries and screams and sobs – and not just the cries and screams of sobs of men at war – from below, she had gone with him.

The Hound had been right that nobody would bother them as they left the city. His destrier was fearsome enough as it was, nearly as black and imposing and fit-for-war as was its rider, but he was another thing altogether. Although the burnt side of his face was cloaked by the night's cool cowl of shadows, he was still one of the tallest, broadest men she'd ever seen and she knew that to anyone they passed, he would be a formidable sight to behold. There was also the matter of his white cloak, although up close, she could see that it wasn't nearly as clean as it appeared from afar. As they rode through the high grey doors of the Iron Gate, the acrid scent of smoke stung in Sansa's lungs. She coughed.

"Wildfire, girl," the Hound spoke.

Sansa had to strain to hear the rough whisper of his voice under the screams and sobs of the battle still raging around them. Although they had passed the heart of the combat, where the spill of blood and song of swords was the thickest, the path they took was still overflowing with soldiers and men running and shoving their way away from the fray. She couldn't blame them from wanting away. She did too. Hot tears swam in her eyes, but stubbornly, she refused to let them fall. Don't be a coward, Sansa, she told herself. If I had stayed, Cersei would have sent Ser Illyn Payne to cut my throat. With the Hound, I shall be safe. Be brave, Sansa.

It was true that the man had promised not to harm her; to kill any man who got in their way. To bring her back to her mother and brother in the north. Still, she wasn't convinced that his intentions were entirely pure. He was so large that he could overpower her easily at any moment, and she wasn't fool enough to miss the way that he had sometimes looked at her when they passed in the halls of the Red Keep. Shivering, Sansa pictured him bringing her to some faraway wood and taking her innocence cloaked in the trees where nobody could hear her screams.

Also, there was the matter of the fact that he was clearly drunk, judging by the heavy smell of wine on his breath. Maybe when the cloud in his head settled in the morning, he would regret his decision to bring her along and end their journey together with a flick of his blade. Sansa knew there wasn't much she could do if he decided to do that. She was, after all, a gentle-bred highborn girl, raised to sew and sing and smile. On a cold, hard journey, she was a liability, she knew. She had nothing to offer the Hound in payment for her passage north, either. Unless… what was it that Cersei had said earlier? Tears are not a woman's only weapon. You've got another one between your legs, and you'd best learn to use it.

No, Sansa pushed the idea from her mind, squeezing her eyes shut, no. Not him. Not with the Hound. In front of her, he sat streaked and matted with tar-black blood, some of it drying into a crust and some fresh and scarlet. A beast of a man, with wild eyes and a strong body made of muscle and bone and flesh and anger.

Suddenly, Sansa was overcome with a sensation of homesickness. Of loneliness. In the north, her family awaited her. She wondered what her mother would say if she saw her again; what she would do. Weep, most likely. Sansa felt like weeping too. She wondered meekly if Arya was still alive. Her sister had always been wild, a wolf girl if there ever was one. Perhaps she had managed to survive the journey north to their home and awaited her return there. Somehow, the feeling made Sansa's heart ache and itch. I will be strong, she decided. I will be as strong as a maiden from the songs and win my way back to my family and perhaps someday they'll sing a song of me too.

They rode hard for what felt like hours. Behind them, the sounds of battle melted gradually away and were replaced by the cold, eerie quiet of the wood. Eventually, Sansa's inner thighs began to chafe and ache and her throat grew dry and sour. Unused to the perils of riding, she knew that she couldn't keep going for much longer, but loathe to interrupt the delicate silence that had fallen between her and the man she clung to, she bit down hard into her lower lip. The Hound certainly wouldn't appreciate her whinging.

Soon, though, her prayers were answered when the Hound eased the big horse to an uneasy stop and swung himself off of its back. A moment later, he was reaching up with callused hands to seize her waist and pull her off of the horse as well. There was something reassuring about the firm pressure of his grip, but it was gone the moment Sansa's feet touched the ground, as if burnt by the touch of her body. The Hound busied himself with tying the horse's reins to a nearby oak.

"We'll stop here for the night," he said in a low voice, not quite looking at her. Sansa wrinkled her nose. It was only a quick thing, gone in an instant, but the Gods ensured that the Hound noticed her reaction. He scoffed. "What, girl? Expected we'd be staying in castles of gold and silk featherbeds along the way?" His roar was razor-sharp. "Look at me, girl." Reluctantly, she pulled her eyes up to meet his own, steel-grey and unforgiving. "This journey will be long and hard. You've made it before, but there'll be no pillowed wheelhouse for you this time. I don't expect you'll be of much use to me along the way, but you'll do what I fucking say and not object, and when we get to Riverrun I'll sell you back to your wolf family and you'll be gone of me forever. Understand?"

Sansa understood. She felt her eyes watering again and this time she could not stop her tears from kissing her cheeks. Luckily, the Hound had already prodded away to gather kindle for a fire and didn't notice. She curled her knees into her chest and let her sobs come in shallow heaves until she was too thirsty and cold to cry anymore, which could have been an hour or a minute.

Before her, in a root-jagged clearing, the man had produced some semblance of a campsite: two straw bedrolls laid out by a sad little fire pit. A weak yellow flame flickered in the mud and dirt, and Sansa dragged herself forward on her elbows to reach it. Her legs felt too weak to stand on and her forehead was warm and sweaty. Beneath her, the skirts of the thick dress she had chosen to protect her from the cold tangled and tore, their woollen material already covered in dirt and to her horror, blood. She didn't dare to think long on whose.

A moment after Sansa had positioned herself close enough to the amber-gold of the flames to soak up their heat, the Hound joined her. The air had started to lose its thickness and send a shiver down her spine. Wordlessly, the Hound reached into his saddlebag and produced a hunk of bread, which he threw at her. It landed in the dirt nearby, but Sansa picked it up, her pride stung, and nibbled at it anyways. It had been nearly a day since she'd last eaten, and although the bread was dry and hard, it tasted better than anything she'd ever eaten before.

Neither of them spoke as they ate their bread. There was no more talking that night, and as the air grew chilly, Sansa tucked herself into the bedroll she had chosen. Her eyes were crusty with dried tears when she tried to closed them and force herself to sleep. Still, true rest could not find her until she heard the Hound's movements cease and his breathing slow and she was sure that he was asleep. Only then did Sansa Stark allow herself to slip into an uneasy, restless sleep. There would be no dreams tonight.


	2. Drink

Sandor

Bathed in moonlight, the little bird would look the picture of the Maiden herself, he imagined. Not that he believed much in the Seven, but still.

Her hair – _her pretty hair, oh, how he longed to touch it, to thread his hands through it, to press it against his skin_ – would shine auburn and silky in the pearly incandescence of the night. Red as fire, red as blood. Gods, there was plenty of blood on him: sticky and clotting and drying crustily to his chainmail and breeches and jerkin, as red as the sky above him, as red as her lovely, lovely hair. He had managed to obtain a shallow cut to his right arm – not his sword arm, thank the buggering Gods for all the good they did –, but the rest wasn't his own blood at all. The wildfire cast an eerie green glow on the stone walls of the room, he noticed. The memory of the cursed green fire – _burning, dancing, laughing_ – made him itch.

Sandor stepped forward deeper into the little bird's chamber. She wasn't there, he noticed, and he couldn't tell if the feeling that swelled in his chest was of relief or of disappointment. Gods, he needed a drink. For a moment, a faint voice from deep within the confines of his head reminded him of his plan, scolded him that it would be nearly impossible to complete his desertion while blackout drunk, but he ignored it. Reached for the wineskin at his hip. Took a deep sip.

Her bedchamber reminded him of her. He knew, though, that she probably thought it more of a prison than a safe haven. There was a tall, canopied featherbed made up neatly with the delicate silks and cushions that the warm weather allowed and the ladies of the court preferred, rather than the furs of Winterfell that he remembered from his time there. Cersei's influence, he was sure. The lion bitch was always sure to think of every little detail that would make somebody, especially somebody as fresh and innocent as the little bird was, miserable.

That thought made him take a deeper sip of the wine. The taste was dour and thick, staining his lips and teeth with its crimson-red colour. Almost like blood. The thought made him chuckle, and soon he was laughing a loud, crazed laugh in the little bird's empty bedchamber, the sound dancing off the cold, green-glowing stone walls in a cruel reverberation.

More wine, Sandor thought. He sat gingerly down on the girl's bed as he chugged, but was soon so overwhelmed by the scent of her that his hand shook and he let the wine drip down the front of his chainmail. The little bird's bed smelled of winter violets and cloves and the gentle lye soap saved for the highborn ladies of gentlest birth. It smelled of _her._ She smelled of woman and lady and girl and he allowed himself to be caught up in her scent for a moment. He lay in the bed, curling her silken bedsheets around himself and closing his eyes. Maybe the Gods, if they existed at all, would be merciful and let him die now, surrounded by the scent of her.

But his whisper of a peaceful moment was lost when, a moment later, the heavy wooden door of the bedchamber was heaved open, thrown closed and latched shut, all very quickly. It was her, of course. The little bird. He'd known she would come, eventually. She looked pale and drawn and skinny. He reached for her small white wrist, and when she jerked away and opened her mouth to scream, he slipped a thick, calloused hand over it before she could. He would have no lion guards come and find him in this vulnerable position and ruin his precious moment with her.

The wine formed a cloud in his head, and even as he spoke he couldn't quite understand the words that he was saying. Judging by the look on the little bird's face, though, he knew that they weren't kind. _If you scream, I'll kill you. Believe that._

Even looking as terrified and small as she did, she was still beautiful, nearly a woman grown. The deep curve of her waist was emphasized by the sleek cut of her King's Landing style gown, and suddenly Sandor was almost overwhelmed with lust, with his desire for her. He could take her then and there, he thought suddenly, rashly, and take a song from her as well when he was finished. One happy moment that he could treasure forever before he rode off away from her forever.

In the next moment, though, he was filled with a throbbing sense of guilt at his impure thoughts. Never would he dare to spoil such untouched innocence in that shameful, sinful way. A song, though… A song he would allow himself. A song from his pretty little bird to sing out in his ears and his head and his heart as he rode away. And so, in the croaked, cracked voice of a beast who had maybe once been a boy, he brought it forth from her, his dagger poised at her throat. The same sober voice that had chided at him not to drink reminded him that she was bred gently and that he was hurting her, but somehow, he couldn't find it in him to care.

"Sing," he had begged of her. And sing she did, in a thin, wobbly voice that sounded high and clear in his drunken ears. His little bird sang that buggering hymn of Mother's mercy. It was a horse shite of a song, but from her it was so beautiful that he found himself forgetting to breathe for fear of missing a moment of it. Sandor didn't realize he was crying until he felt her gentle hand at his cheek. Her skin was soft. He could die now, he thought to himself. But once more, just once, he asked her to come with him. He would kill any man who even looked at her, he knew. Even himself.

And to his surprise, she looked upon him with steely Tully blue eyes, unflinching. And she said that she would go.

* * *

When dawn faded through the clouds the next morning, bringing with it the dull light of of what promised to be long, sluggish day, Sandor's head was throbbing familiarly and he was cursing himself for even offering to bring the girl with him.

He couldn't remember much of their escape from King's Landing, to his great regret, but his sword was had dried in a fresh film of blood, which meant that he'd used it recently. Later, he would check in his saddlebag to see what he'd packed for his journey, and that might reveal the true nature of his escape. Well—of their escape.

Sandor's head roiled and he peered bitterly at the girl. A soft highborn girl unaccustomed to riding, unaccustomed to anything other than sitting pale and pretty in her high white tower and sewing pretty silk dresses, would be a tremendous burden to him as he made his way away from King's Landing. On his own, he could have made the journey easily enough, he knew (although he wasn't quite sure _where_ the journey he made would take him). With _her_ , though…

He was hot with regret and a shameful, aching feeling of fury. He should never have offered to bring her, and she most definitely should not have trusted him enough to accept his offer. He had clearly been drunk. Gods, he had even put a dagger to her pretty white throat, hadn't he? Stupid, trusting little bird. And stupid honourable Eddard Stark for raising his daughter to be naïve and foolish as she was, for cloaking the true cruel nature of men behind songs of dashing knights and fair maidens. Though, Sandor supposed, Lord Stark had gotten more than enough punishment for that.

Aside from the impossibility of the journey ahead, there was the fact that the girl was the king's betrothed. Forsaking his Kingsguard vows and deserting the side of the king was treason enough as it was, but taking _her_ … the boy king's pretty little betrothed, his favourite toy to torment…

Sandor turned to look at her sleeping form across from the campfire. Her hair seemed lighter in the early morning daylight, and it was splayed around her sweet face like a halo of deep red fire as she slept. In sleep, the little bird looked even younger than she was, which was already plenty young enough. Truthfully, he wasn't sure if she would survive the journey, if she was truly as frail and fragile as she looked in sleep. Still, what else could he do now?

He could leave her in the woods to starve and suffer and, eventually, to perish of thirst or exposure. He could end her suffering here and now with a scarlet swipe to the neck. He could return her safely to King's Landing, to the den of the lions, and lose his head for it. Or he could take her with him, teach her how to take care of Stranger, and return her to her lady mother in Riverrun for a hefty sum. After that… he could think about what he would do, where he would go after that, later on. That was what he had told the girl he would do the previous night, after all, Sandor remembered vaguely—sell her off to her mother. It was a poor, shaky plan but the best one that he could think of under the current dire circumstances.

Gruffly, Sandor pulled himself to his feet. Looking at her only reminded him of the terrible, drunken mistake he'd made, and he would have no more of it. He knew that it wasn't really her fault that she was so naïve, truly, but she had made a grave mistake in trusting him and now she would pay for it with what he was sure would be the worst journey of her life. He turned her back on her and strode away from the sleeping figure by the fire pit to his saddlebag, where he found the carefully-painted map he had swiped back at King's Landing. Not that they were lacking them there, anyways.

Right now, Sandor figured, they were somewhere between Hayford and Stokeworth. They had ridden a hard, long night, and he had been careful to shy east of the Kingsroad. He knew that when the dust of the battle cleared, either side would be looking for the little bird. If Stannis Baratheon was victorious, as Sandor suspected he would be, he'd want the famed sister of King-in-the-North Robb Stark as a hostage. If, by some miracle of the buggering Seven, the Lannisters still presided, Cersei Lannister would hunt hungrily for her red-headed captive and be furious when she found her gone. The boy prince would hate that Sandor had gone too, but he seriously doubted that anyone would piece together the fact that they were together. He had made sure that nobody alive had seen them clearly. The smallfolk and soldiers they had passed had been far too concerned with not dying to care about the skinny girl and the brutish man that had slipped by them as they tried to navigate through the battle.

No, they had the advantage of subtlety. The little bird's home was in Winterfell, and so they would pick their path through the wilderness to get there. At some point, though, Sandor acknowledged that he would need to stop for news of who had won the battle. They'd need to replenish their food and water supplies, too. There were several small villages — clusters of beaten stone cottages filled with weary-eyed smallfolk — along the way, he noted. Eventually, they would stop at one.

Behind him, the girl stirred, pressing a smooth, pale arm to her face. Despite his sense of tentative, uneasy satisfaction with the travel plan he had concocted, he still didn't feel like facing her just yet. It would have been bounds easier if he had left her like he should have. Slipping the map back into the saddlebag, Sandor Clegane turned and started his way deeper into the forest, his boots ploughing through the tangled brush, and he didn't look back until the girl was a but copper glint against the green blur of the forest.


	3. Mercy

Sansa

The next morning Sansa stirred awake to a sky the colour of a fresh bruise. It was pretty, she thought as she drew herself up to her elbows. He body felt sore from the previous day's heavy riding, but the overwhelming feeling of sadness and loneliness had subsided in her chest.

Now that it was light outside, she had a better view of the clearing where they had spent the night: the fire had gone out while she slept, and across from her, the Hound's straw pallet sat discarded and empty. Other than what meagre supplies they had set up to as their camp, the clearing was untouched by any signs of human life. Sansa sat up and peered around her. Where was the Hound? His horse, the towering black creature that had carried them away from the Red Keep and then the rage of the battle and then even King's Landing itself, was still tethered to the oak tree where he had tied it last night. She knew that that meant that he couldn't have gone far, so she didn't concern herself too much with his whereabouts.

Sansa stood, flattening her skirts below her. They were already ruined, she noted ruefully. She knew that it had been wise to choose a plain grey dress of warm wool, one of her older ones from Winterfell, instead of a lovelier one that would have been a shame to see spoiled. In the dress, dirty as it was, she felt like herself. Sansa had always loved pretty things, but for too long in King's Landing, her pretty things had reminded her of the king and the queen mother. In this dress, Sansa felt more like a Stark than she had felt in months.

The clearing where the Hound had set up camp the previous night was covered with moss and encircled by tall oak trees with spindly branches that stretched up to meet the sky. In the thin light of the morning, it was quite pretty. Sansa had never been one for the outdoors, but now, that she would be living outdoors for however many moons it would take to get home, she figured that she had better learn to like it.

Now that she was awake, there wasn't much for Sansa to do until the Hound returned, and she began to grow restless. Thankfully, though, only a few minutes of her idleness had passed before he came lumbering back through the trees and into the clearing. He was still wearing his bloodstained armour and she wondered if he had slept in it. It couldn't have been comfortable.

"Good morrow, ser," she said in her most ladylike tone and cringed at the way her voice came out thin and childish. She tilted her head up to try to meet his eyes. He still cast a fearful form, and the scars on his face made her want to flinch, but it would do no good to show him her fear if they were to be travelling companions.

The tall man looked down at her and sneered rather nastily, in her opinion. "Good _morrow_ , little bird," he mocked. "And save your bloody sers. I'm no knight."

Sansa was affronted by his tone, but said nothing. He moved past her quickly and angrily – though she didn't know _why_ he was so angry – and set about rolling up their pallets. When he was done, he secured them back into the saddlebag and produced another small hunk of stolen kitchen bread, handing it to her roughly. This time, it didn't taste nearly so fine, but she turned her face into it without complaint.

When she was done, the Hound lifted her back upon the horse without warning and she felt her cheeks heat at the sudden touch. He sat himself behind her this time, so that she could feel the cold press of his armor weighing uncomfortably against her back but also had less fear of falling off of the horse. They rode away from the pretty little clearing swiftly, and Sansa almost felt a kind of sadness. Their first campsite had been so pretty, and she knew not when they would stop again.

They rode quietly, the sun beating at the crown of Sansa's head, until the silence and discomfort were too much combined for her to bear. "Did anyone know that you were leaving?" she asked finally.

It took him a moment to reply. "No," he said eventually. "None who live still. Most of them were too busy worrying about not catching fire to worry about where the king's hound was going, weren't they?"

She was quiet. "Why did you leave?" she asked finally.

"Don't matter to you, girl." Silence. Then, "Even a dog gets tired of being kicked."

Sansa mulled over the response. "Will they know that we're together?"

"Doubt it. If we've earned a bit of luck, the Lannisters are all dead by now. Stannis'll look for you eventually, you'd be a splendid hostage, but you aren't his top priority at the moment if he's just won a battle like that."

That made her stop and think. Sansa had thought, rather stupidly, perhaps, that if Stannis won, he would return her to her family, but really, that was just another pretty picture she had painted in her head to give herself a bit of hope. Certainly her father had always thought Stannis an honourable man, but war was war, and her claim was too much to pass up on in the name of honour. She let the silence catch on as she thought, and soon it was still around them again. Sansa's thoughts were muddled and messy.

They hadn't been riding for very long at all when their tentative calm was broken by a strangled, blood-stilling moan. At first, Sansa thought that it was a wild animal, but quickly she realized that the sound was _human._ The Hound jerked the horse to a stop immediately, his hand flicking to the scabbard at his hip, and he heaved himself from the saddle. The cry had come from a scraggly bush not far away, and when he whisked away the branches, Sansa gasped at the sight before her.

It _was_ a man, she realized, but he was so bloody and ragged that at first he had just appeared to be a red, ripped hunk of meat. Sansa let herself slip off the horse, and her ankle twisted as she landed, but she ignored the sting.

"Please, ser," the man was crooning desperately at the Hound as she approached, her steps cautious. "Please." She didn't know what he was asking for, and was about to ask, when he saw her. He had watery brown eyes that widened when they took her in, and then he was crying loudly, his snivelling sobs mixed with pleading prayers to the Maiden, begging her for forgiveness and mercy and peace.

"What happened to you?" the Hound was asking, and it took a moment before the wounded man managed to control his sobbing enough to answer.

"Battle o' the Blackwater," he choked. "Iron Gate were open an' I managed to grab onto a cart headed out, but I were already hurt an' when the driver found me stowing out he cut me up even more."

Sansa saw the Hound's jaw set, rigid. "Do you know who won the battle, then?"

"No, ser," the dying man said. " _Please_ , ser. Mercy, please."

"Fuck your sers," the Hound said, but his voice was grim and held no trace of true malice.

Suddenly Sansa knew what the man wanted the Hound to do, and she turned away as fast as she could, but was too late to miss the sight of the dagger thrust thickly into the man's chest. He gurgled and coughed wetly for a moment, but in the next, he fell silent.

She turned back. The Hound was still crouched over the body, wiping his freshly-bloodstained dagger on the the dead man's boiled leather chest plate. Then he reached his hands into the leather satchel lain next to the corpse, rifled around, and pulled out a handful of coppers and an empty wineskin.

"That isn't right," Sansa heard herself saying, and regretted it immediately. She waited for the Hound's anger to snap back at her.

Surprisingly, when he spoke, his voice was too tired to be angry. "He's got no use for it now, anyway, girl."

She bit into her chapped lower lip and tasted the coppery tang of blood. She didn't speak again as he pulled her up onto the saddle again and the silence held as the big horse took them away from the sad, dead figure of the soldier's body in the brush.

* * *

Later, Sansa realized that the Hound was steering them further east than they had been riding before. As soon as she noticed, fear seized in the pit of her stomach. When she asked him about it, he only shook his head grimly.

"If that man truly was from Blackwater, it means we're too close to the Kingsroad."

That made sense, but it took the rest of the day's ride for the feeling of panic to fully unravel, and Sansa was reminded once again of how big the Hound was; of how easily he could take her deep into the woods, rape her, and leave her corpse to decay into the loam.

They made camp that evening in another clearing. It had already grown windy and bitter, the cold air whistling through the tall, rangy branches of the forest. As the sky darkened, coils of mist shrouded the tips of the ragged oak trees, and when Sansa tilted her head up, she could just barely make out the faint freckling of the stars, pale against the purple night.

It took the Hound a little while to raise a fire, and even when he did, it was but a pitiful red flame that sparked sadly when the wind eased around it. Sansa felt cold and sad and tired as she watched. She wished that her mother was here; but no, she didn't, she just wished that she were somewhere else, anywhere but here, deep in the wood with the Hound. She helped him unravel their pallets and lay them on the craggy bed of roots beneath, and then she sat on hers with her legs tangled beneath her.

Neither of them spoke as he produced a rind of salted pork from his saddlebag and offered it to her. When Sansa looked at it, she thought all of a sudden of how she had thought the man was a piece of bloodied meat at first and, stomach roiling, let it fall into her lap. Her traveling companion noticed, and she saw his jaw set, but said nothing. A few minutes later, though, when her stomach had settled and was starting to ache with hunger, she brought the rind to her mouth and nibbled reluctantly. It was good. The Hound smirked.

"He thought you were the Maiden, you know."

Sansa looked up. The deep rasp of his voice had startled her and she couldn't think of anything to say back. She supposed that perhaps in King's Landing, with her hair combed long and shiny, wearing a prettier dress, she might have looked the part, but even after only a day and a night in the wilderness, she was starting to smell rank, and her long red hair was knotted down her back. Shamefully, Sansa felt her eyes growing wet.

"Don't you cry now, little bird," the Hound said, sounding displeased. "He would've died whether or not I gave him his final blow. My blade was an act of kindness, not cruelty. Don't give me those eyes."

She lowered them. She hadn't known that she was giving him any eyes at all, and for a moment, she wanted to explain that she hadn't been upset that he'd killed the man, that she knew an act of mercy when she saw it, but her throat felt raw and scratchy and she didn't speak more on the subject.

"Won't they be angry that you've left?" she said instead, knowing that it was a stupid question, but clinging desperately to the sound of his voice in the night. Something about hearing another person's voice helped heave down the feeling of loneliness that threated to turn her chest to ice.

"Aye, they will," the Hound said, "but only if they're alive to miss me at all." He tossed a pebble at the fire. "As I said, if we've had any luck, anyone who'd care about where I was is dead."

"But what if they aren't?" she insisted.

He looked at her. The fire cast an eerie orange glow on his face, tracing the angles and hard edges of his jawline and cheekbones. His good side was dark and strong: a heavy brow, slanting into a hooked nose; and full, downturned lips, bitten raw. Not at all bad to look upon, Sansa realized, and wondered if he could have perhaps been handsome if he had been whole. The other side, though, the bad one, was monstrous in the firelight. Rather than cloak its scars, the gentle flicker bathed them in harsh shades of blood-red and orange, and the Hound looked rather like a corpse.

"If they aren't then they'll send men out to find us. Joff'll leave us for dead, I bet, but his mother likes to make sure all her ends are tied. She'll promise a good lump of gold for our heads, though I'm sure she'd still prefer to see you back alive, she's got her Kingslayer brother to think of, after all." He paused for a moment. Scratched the stubble on his chin. "They won't get us, though. I'll kill anyone who tries, don't you worry. I promised you that much, didn't I?"

Indeed, he had promised her that much. Still, the thought of seeing anybody else die was wholly unappealing, dampening at the sense of comfort and security that she could sense he was trying to extend to her.

"Goodnight," Sansa said softly. He looked at her, eyes gleaming grey and white, and nodded.

This night, when she crawled into the straw pallet, she found warmth quickly and slept without quite as much fear as the night before.


	4. Name

Sandor

The little bird was growing used to their routine, he could tell.

Good. It would be no use to have her continue her moping and flinching every time he looked at her or accidentally brushed the side of her dress as he shifted Stranger's reins. With each day that Sandor didn't rape her and rip her to shreds, she grew less tense against his chest as they rode, and on the fifth day, she even let herself ease into his plate.

The horse was growing weary, he could sense. Stranger was a huge, ghastly thing, and tempestuous too, as the stable boys at King's Landing had loved to call him, but he respected his rider as long as he remembered to brush him and let him rest. Although Sandor was always sure to do the former every time they dismounted, the latter was starting to get tricky as their days of riding stretched forward endlessly.

Each day, he would wake the girl as the sun rose red. She was a pretty thing when she slept, her red hair growing matted and frazzled the longer they rode, but he tried not to let his eyes linger on her for too long. They would break their fast on that buggering dry bread he had stolen from the kitchens at the Red Keep and then they would ride for most of the day, taking a meal of pork rind on horseback. Their only stop was at night, where, thoroughly exhausted, the girl would tumble from the saddle, eat whatever he shoved at her, and sleep as soon as he had managed to call up a flame.

There were a few problems with this strategy, he had started to note. First of all, Stranger was growing weaker. He was made for war, but walking for hours straight with no rest but the sacred stolen hours at dark was beginning to take its toll on him. There was also the matter of the girl, who grew more bone-thin and sallow-cheeked every day. She still tried to talk to him, but her efforts were beginning to tire as she grew sickly. It was because of the food, he knew. Sandor had only grabbed what he could when he was deserting, and their meagre supply of stale bread and pork might have served him fine on his own, but with another mouth to feed, it was beginning to run out. They had been drinking water – her – and wine – him – sparingly out of the two wineskins he had brought along, replenishing their supply at every dirty creek they came across, but it pply was nearly gone and the girl's full lips had lost their pretty reddish hue and become cracked and pale.

It had been foolish of him, Sandor thought angrily to himself, to insist they go on in this sort of manner. Such a gentle highborn girl was not bred for this kind of hard land travel, and the lack of proper food would kill her before any bloodthirsty soldier they might come across. He had wanted to get as far away from King's Landing as fast as possible, but he hadn't thought about how their journey would affect her disposition.

They dismounted and made camp earlier than usual that day.

"We'll not ride again tomorrow," he told the girl, and her eyes lit up.

"Why not?" she wanted to know, but her tone was nothing short of delighted.

"You're growing frail," he said. "Can't sell you back to your lady mother if you're a sack of bones, can I? Tomorrow I'll hunt us some real game and we'll rest. I recognize the area from when I rode North the last time, it's a fine spot for hares."

The girl looked as if she could cry from happiness. She opened her mouth to speak, waited a moment, and then closed it, a strange look coming over face. He couldn't quite place it, but the shred of spare tenderness in her gaze made him turn away and start gathering kindling for the fire. As much as he despised this part of their routine, he wouldn't have her freeze to death, either. Tonight, he made an effort to gather enough to start a larger fire than the other nights. She watched as he fiddled around with the flame. He wasn't facing her, but he could feel eyes burning into the back of his neck.

"I wish that I could be of some help to you," the girl said eventually, rather ruefully.

He snorted. "Then learn to help," was his gruff reply. "I'll teach you how."

There was a moment of tentative silence, and then he heard he skirts ruffling as she stood and scrambled her way towards her.

"Here," he said, showing her the pile of tinder that he had already assembled. "Got to make sure all've your bark and leaves are dry. Won't do any good if you choose the soggy ones, they won't burn."

Obediently, she set off collecting twigs and leaves and bits of hanging moss. Her hair glinted copper against the forest's dull greens and greys. When she returned, he showed her how to spin the sticks together to make a spark, but when he had her try, she couldn't bring one to life, and frustrated tears sprang up into her eyes.

"Don't go crying now, girl," Sandor said, harsher than he'd meant to be. The little bird flinched visibly, and he tried to make his tone gentler. "You won't be getting it up on your first try. Try again."

Turning her head down compliantly, she did, and, on her third try, brought up a weak yellow ember. She looked up at him with wide blue eyes, proud of herself, and he found himself giving a curt nod of satisfaction at her work.

They ate the last of the bread and pork that night. Sandor could see that the girl was sick half to death of the taste, but, clinging to his promise of fresh game the next day, she ate dutifully and slipped into the rough spun material of her pallet soon after. Instead of sleeping immediately, he listened until her breathing slowed to sleep and watched her curled form grow less tense in the shadow of the fire.

Morning came upon them, cool and clear, in shades of pale blue and orange. Sandor rose groggily and stretched his body underneath him, wincing at the dull crackling of his bones. To his surprise, the little bird was already awake and sitting primly in front of the smoldering remains of the fire. She must have heard him stir, because she turned and fixed her big Tully eyes on him. Daughter of the North she might have been, but she certainly looked the fish more so than the wolf, he thought to himself.

"Morning, little bird," he said, sitting up properly.

"Good morning," she replied promptly, but then she frowned, her pretty little nose wrinkling. "I… I don't know what I should call you."

"The Hound will do."

But she was shaking her head. "It doesn't feel right. You rescued me from King's Landing and I show my thanks by calling you by a cruel name that isn't even yours."

"Better the Hound than your sers," he said, his tone suddenly gravel. "And you'll stop with that nonsense."

"With what nonsense?" She sounded wounded.

"Painting me out to be one of your true knights. One of your proper, honourable knights. I'm no knight and I'm no lord and you'll stop with your pretending that I am. Does it make you feel better to convince yourself that I'm a honourable _ser_ doing my duty to you as a highborn lady instead of a dirty Hound who stole you away for his own benefit? I took you from your bedchamber in King's Landing because I knew your wolf family would pay a great deal for their prettiest daughter returned. I harboured no honourable intentions, _my lady_."

Sandor didn't know where the sudden burst of anger had come from, but it didn't matter; the effect was instantaneous. She drew back as sharply as if she had been cut. He turned and made to stand, but then, to his surprise, the little bird spoke again.

"I know it gives you joy to frighten me." Her voice trembled. "But you don't scare me anymore. And I won't call you the Hound anymore, either."

For a moment, he couldn't think of what to say. When he looked at her, her gaze was iron under the tears. She didn't believe him, he realized. He understood, then, that he wouldn't be able to get away with his pretending that all she meant to him was her claim. Sandor had let part of his carefully-maintained armour slip that night at the Blackwater, when she had been pinned under him, and it had been a grave mistake. The girl had seen the look in his eye, had known what he intended from her, and she knew, albeit clumsily; innocently in her lovely, unspoiled mind, that he wanted her. It was a mistake letting her know the edge of power that she had over him. She wouldn't be so easily frightened into submission if she knew that she had cards to play.

He swallowed thickly. He said, "Sandor, then."

The girl met his eyes, blue on grey, and she nodded. "Sandor it is."

* * *

The day was pleasantly soaked with sun. When Sandor crept into the woods to catch a hare for their supper, the little bird trailed hesitantly behind him and picked berries, gathering them into the front of her dress like an apron. He had considered trying to teach her to hunt, but the waif of a girl would never live to bear a sword, and he still felt wary of her from their earlier conversation. Besides, it felt wrong somehow to put a weapon in her hand, like he was polluting something pure, ripping away whatever shred of innocence she had left after King's Landing.

By the time Sandor had finally managed to entrap a hare in the rough knotted net he had chosen for his snare, the sun was already turning red and sinking beneath the horizon and a thick sheen of sweat had built on his forehead and upper neck. The day had been warm, but the night would be cold and dark, he knew. Best get back to the horse and the campfire before twilight fell fully.

He slid his dagger through a hole in the net's roughspun fabric and felt the hare squirm and die, the slow soak of crimson spreading in the dirt. He swung his kill over his shoulder, ignoring the blood drip that threatened to stain his shoulder. Sandor hadn't been much out of his armour since King's Landing, and as a result, it was bloodied and stained with dirt and mud, he regarded with a grunt. He decided that they would need to find someplace to wash. The girl's waist-length red hair was tousled and tangled with dirt, making her look more like a Wildling than the highborn beauty she was. Not to say that she wasn't still beautiful, but they were both starting to smell as foul and rank as a corpse. All of the creeks and streams that they'd come across so far were too small and muddy to be much use other than for refilling their wineskins and watering Stranger. No, they would need to find a proper inn with a proper bath if they were truly to get clean. It would do the girl some good to sleep in a real bed with a roof over her head, too, he decided. As wary as Sandor was to leave the relative safety they had found in the shelter of the deep wood, he accepted then the inevitability of their journey into town and would even go as far to admit that he missed the comforts of the indoors as well as she. Or, mayhaps not as well as she, but close enough.

The girl wasn't hard to find, and she followed quietly in his stead as Sandor made his way back to the clearing. When they arrived, she set off collecting tinder and kindling to stoke the fire without him asking, which pleased him greatly. She drew the fire herself at his beckoning and he sat across from her and skinned the hare. The little bird produced a spark on her third try, and sat crouched before him as he eased the skin off of his kill, her nose wrinkling in distaste at the bloodiness of his work. They settled into a comfortable kind of quiet as he worked, and not a word was spoken until the meat was turning and sizzling on a pick over the fire.

Then, tentatively, in a voice barely loud enough to hear over the crackle of their bonfire, the girl said, "You've a tear in your jerkin, Sandor."

He breathed sharply at the way she spoke his name. Her voice was soft and honeyed sweet and he felt something warm shifting in the pit of his stomach as he imagined her _screaming_ it, but no. _No._ He would not allow himself to think such impure thoughts about the girl. It would do no good to lose himself to fantasies that would never, _could_ never happen. _Seven bloody buggering hells._

"What of it?" he rasped eventually.

"I could mend it for you, if you'd like." Her voice was losing its hint of fear. "I could sew it up, I'm good at sewing."

"With what needle and thread?" he asked, dry but not ungentle. Her face fell. "No, little bird, you'll leave my jerkin be. Tomorrow we'll be headed to the nearest village. We'll stay a night and I'll have my jerkin mended there. You'll be able to have a proper bath, girl. Would you like that?"

"Oh," she gasped, "oh yes! More than anything!" All pretenses of her preserved pretty shyness were dropped in an instant and her face lit up pleasingly. Good. He hadn't seen her smile since before Joff had ordered her father's head chopped off and presented it to her on a spike. She had worn her grief well in the many moons since then, like a silken mask, but such a beautiful young thing was never meant for the sadness of smallfolk.

They made their supper of cooked hare and the sweet-tasting berries that the girl had gathered from the bushes. It tasted better than anything he'd ever eaten, despite the fact that the meat was unseasoned and the berries had a cloying nature to their sweetness.

Warm and comfortably full for the first time in what felt like ages, sleep wasn't long in extending its fingers over him, but Sandor stayed up long enough to watch as the little bird drifted to sleep, firelight dancing in her flaming hair. Watching her pale figure, curved and womanly, in the light, he was reminded of the way she had said his name, and felt, once again, an uncomfortable stiffening in his breeches.

He stood and strode into the coverage of the wood before the little bird had a chance to wake up and catch him with a hard cock for her. When he was far enough away from the clearing that he knew she wouldn't be able to see him even if she woke, he unlaced his breeches, freed his cock and got to work. It was uncomfortable business, getting himself off in the chill of the forest, but all he had to do was picture her, red hair trickling over bare white shoulders, bosom heaving, calling out his name again and again, and he could get on with the process.


	5. Town

Sansa

 _It was less of a village_ , Sansa thought, _than a town, really._

The Hound – no, _Sandor,_ she must remember to call him _Sandor_ now – had woken her before dawn, but she had been too excited the previous night to sleep deeply and rose easily. He had located the settlement on a hand-drawn parchment map he produced from the saddlebag, and he was in such a good mood, too, that he pointed out where they were. It was called Capwood, Sandor was saying, but Sansa was more focused on its position on the map than on its name: she noticed, with a warm surge of delight, they had moved steadily up from the Crownlands to the Riverlands in their past days of travel. It would still be a long time before she returned to her home in Winterfell, but she _would_ return. She had forged a wary kind of alliance with her new traveling companion, but the fear had still remained, deep and uneasy in the pit of her stomach, that he would take her away and do what he liked. She was entirely dependent on him; it would be so easy for him to spur the horse in one direction rather than another and lead her off path, and she wouldn't even have any way of knowing. This proved most resolutely that he hadn't done that. At least not yet.

Her hair was an absolute travesty of knots and tangles after nearly a week of perilous uncleanliness, but Sansa did her best to comb through it with her fingers and plait it messily in a thick braid that fell to her waist. She was rather pleased with her work, considering the state it had been in, but Sandor made her cover it anyways, citing its distinct colour.

"They'll not be used to seeing a girl as fair as you as it is. Certainly don't need them noticing your Tully hair as well and making things even more buggering difficult." Despite the obvious steel in the raspy voice she was growing used to, his tone was not completely ungentle.

That had made her flush, but obediently, she'd wrapped her head in an uncomfortable grey headscarf. Sandor had donned a roughspun cowl as well, but it didn't fare well to cover the burnt side of his face. The ride into town had been silent, but not uncomfortably so: it as if there was a kind of bubbling, sizzling energy of excitement between them that hadn't needed to be contained to small talk. It had taken most of the day to ride there, but to Sansa, it flew by in the blink of an eye.

When they finally came upon the settlement, they were not disappointed, thankfully. Sansa had never heard of it before, and fairly so, because it could not compare to the size of King's Landing or even Winter town outside of Winterfell, but it was large enough to make her insides squeeze up happily at the thought of human company; a comfort she would never have thought she craved.

Capwood was a dirty thing, consisting of messily-built wooden shacks, true enough, but there were enough of them to stretch out from one end of the wood to a large brown clearing at the other. The houses were small and muddied, most of them not more than one story high, save for two buildings: a sept, taller than the others and built of proper stone bricks instead of flighty wood; and what Sansa assumed was the inn.

The inn was large and squat. Admittedly, it wasn't a very pretty sight, but it was sturdy-looking, with rather extensive gardens and stables for an establishment of its size, and it would do very well, Sansa decided.

Sandor spurred the horse onwards. The road to the inn was crawling with dirty-faced smallfolk: women tending to babies; filthy children chasing each other through the street; men with hard, suspicious eyes and leathered skin, some on horseback, or dragging along carts by goat, but most on foot. To her discomfort, Sansa realized that as they rode, the townsfolk started to stare at them in a cautious admission of their apprehension, awe and, most obviously, fear. At first she wondered if her hair had come out of its binding, but no; it was just the sight of the great black horse and its greater, blacker rider that shook them so. Sandor Clegane was as tall a man as Sansa had ever seen, beat only perhaps by his brother, and she was a highborn girl who had travelled to and from court in the capital. For the townspeople who had never left their settlement, she was sure that he was more terrifying and awe-inspiring than they had ever seen.

When they reached the inn, he drew them around the back to its stables, brought the horse to a stop, and reached his large hands against her waist to swung her off the saddle. In their week of travel together, Sansa had grown used to the harsh feeling of his hands against her, but it appeared that he still hadn't—like usual, he was turning away from her as soon as she was off the horse. Sansa wondered if she really smelled _so_ terrible.

The stablehand was a fair-haired boy who couldn't have been much older than Sansa was. At first, he looked terrified at the sight of their great wild beast, but his expression smoothened when Sandor tossed him a spare copper, and set about with his instructions for what was to be done with the horse. He was to be brushed, watered and fed oats, and he was liable to kick and buck like an absolute monster but would generally calm down if you showed him no fear and perhaps offered him an apple… Sansa stopped listening.

Before they entered the inn, a few minutes later, when the stablehand had managed to lead the mount into the stable, Sandor turned to Sansa with a serious expression on his face.

"You remember your story, girl?" he said.

Sansa nodded. She was to be Melessa, daughter of a fisherman from White Harbour. At first, she had wanted to be called Lyanna after the beautiful, wild aunt that her lord father had never talked about, but Sandor had dismissed that at once and told her rather harshly that her head was filled with stupid songs and pretty tales of knights and maidens. Sansa had wanted to protest that she'd never heard a song about her aunt's kidnap and murder and that really, it was quite a _sad_ tale, but she had held her tongue. She chose, instead, the common name Melessa.

That was all well and good enough, but she was also to be Sandor's _wife_. His reasoning behind the choice was understandable—they didn't look nearly enough alike to pass as father and daughter (not that Sansa thought he looked old enough to be her father at all, although it was true that she had no idea how old he was really), and it would explain why a man and woman were travelling together alone. It would only make _sense_ for her to play the role of the frightened young bride torn from her home, and surely it was a part in which she'd excel, but the mere idea of Sandor Clegane, the fearsome Hound, as her husband sent a fluttering sensation into her stomach. Not that he was Sandor Clegane at all: in Capwood, he would be a footsoldier of particularly unusual strength and size, sworn to a minor house like Darry or Harroway, who had acquired his distinctive burns in battle.

"You're not to speak to anyone," Sandor pressed. "And you'll do well to keep your hair covered at all times."

Sansa nodded tiredly. She already _knew_ that. He had told her half a thousand times, though she couldn't understand what dangers the muddy little town could possibly present to her. She drew her cloak more tightly over her dress. Even though it ruined from the journey and had been on the plain side before that, it was still a highborn girl's gown, made of a finer wool than Melessa would have ever even seen, with what had once been pretty stitching around the collar and hem. Although nothing special compared to Sansa's once-beloved summer silks still presumably packed away in her trunk in King's Landing, it would still be a pretty dress when clean, and Melessa of White Harbour would certainly not have worn a dress quite as pretty.

Sandor peered down at her for a moment with an expression that she could not quite place. Then it was gone, his usual mask of annoyed disinterest shifting back into place, and he swung open the wooden door.

Inside, the inn was dark and clammy despite the many waxen candles lit around the room, with squared stone beams supporting its rickety upper floors. The air was thick and warm and smelled of smoke, ale and, underneath that, sweat and dust. In one corner, a small black-smoking fire danced at a stone hearth. A large, carved door opened onto the inn's tavern, and Sansa could hear raucous laughter coming from through it, suggesting a sizable crowd, but the main room was empty save for the innkeep.

The innkeep was short and round-bellied, with thinning blond hair and beady eyes set sunken into their sockets. When he looked at her, those eyes ran down her body greedily and his expression twisted into one that made her extremely uncomfortable. Sansa pulled her scarf closer over her hair, staring resolutely downwards. Sandor didn't seem to notice the wordless exchange, but she drew herself behind him and forced herself to look down at his boots.

"That'll be two rooms and a bath for each," Sandor was saying. The innkeep nodded, scratched some words onto a piece of yellowed parchment and stepped from behind the counter. He beckoned to them.

"Just this way, ser," he said, and they followed a few paces behind. "Supper's in the tavern, o' course. Believe me wife's roasting a pig tonight. My eldest boy slaughtered one just earlier this day. An' she's the finest cook in the town, me wife. An' I'll have my boys fetch the water for your baths, too, ser, I will." The man's constant stream of chatter might have been annoying to Sansa had she not been so starved for human connection.

When the innkeep finally stopped, they had arrived in front of a door. "Here it is!" he said, and then, rather unwisely in Sansa's opinion, he turned his beady little eyes on her. The man smiled, showing a mouthful of missing and blackened teeth. "An' what'll your name be, sweetling?" he asked, his tone honeyed and false.

This time, it would have been impossible for Sandor to miss the hungry look in the man's eyes. "Never you mind what the girl's name will be," he said quietly, his voice turning cold, just as the word _Melessa_ had started to form on her lips. He drew himself up to his full height, his hand shifting menacingly to the scabbard at his hip, and gave the man a hard, mean look. It didn't take much else for the innkeep to scurry away hastily.

Sansa's room was on the second storey of the inn and it reeked of mold. It was so small that there was not much room for much more than a bed, a small table and a wooden washing tub. Still, for Sansa, it was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. Sandor stayed with her until two sandy-haired boys had, over several trips, filled the washing tub with steaming hot water. It was only when they were safely retreated down the staircase that he left her to bathe with strict instructions to bar the door and open to none but him.

"When we're clean and dry we'll go down to the tavern for a hot meal and some wine for me," Sandor told her.

Sansa shed her layers of clothes as if in a dream and almost cried when she slipped into the tub. The water was a shade too hot, but she let the feeling of burning warmth wrap around her like a cloak and sunk deep under the surface, eyes closed.

It took her what felt like an hour to clean. Sansa kept finding more and more dirt encrusted on her body: under her nails; behind her ears; between her toes. Her hair took even longer, as she had nothing more than her fingers and the water to undo all of its damage, but when she was done, it curled over her shoulders prettily, finally clean. It wasn't quite the same as the proper baths she had taken in Winterfell and King's Landing, with scented oils and handmaidens to scrub her clean and douse her in sweet-smelling soaps and perfumes, but when Sansa emerged from the water, she felt cleaner than she had in a long time. Mayhaps cleaner than she had felt even in King's Landing with her perfumes and her ladies-in-waiting.

It was an unpleasant sensation to slip back into her dirty Winterfell dress after getting so clean, but she promised herself that she would wash it with the rest of the bathwater when she returned from supper. Sansa laced the dress tightly around her body, wove her freshly-combed hair back into its braid and slipped her bare feet back into her leather boots. Then she sat back on the bed, suddenly overcome with a crushing sensation of exhaustion. Sansa closed her eyes, intending rest her head for just a moment, and fell asleep.


	6. Brother

Author's Note

Hey guys! Thank you so, so much for reading this far! I just wanted to include this message to thank everyone who has left a comment on this story so far. It means so, so much to me to know that people, no matter how many, are reading my story.

The other purpose of this little message is to let you know that this fanfiction will also eventually be posted on Archive of Our Own! I'm still setting up my account and learning how the website works, but I think that when the story is posted there I'll put a link to my account in my profile or in the next chapters of this book.

Again, I have so much planned for this story and I can't wait to keep going! Thanks once again for reading.

* * *

Sansa

She awoke to the rough sound of knocking on her door. Sansa stood quickly, straightening out her dress as she moved, and pressed her face against the door before she opened it. She could just barely make out Sandor's tall, dark form through the slats of wood, but accordingly, she unlatched the bolt and slid the door open.

Before her, Sandor stood looking much cleaner than she had grown used to. His garb consisted of a fresh leather jerkin and breeches in a faded olive-green colour, and it was the first time since King's Landing that she had seen him without his armour. The lack of plate and chainmail didn't do much to alter the broadness of his shoulders or the curve of his muscle, but she had to admit that he did look a bit less frightening when not dressed the soldier. This effect was mayhaps dampened by the huge steel longsword still stowed safely in the scabbard at his hip. His hair, black and long, was still damp and had been combed messily over the burnt side of his face.

Sandor's eyes slipped down her body quickly, but a moment later his gaze was steady again. "Come, girl," he said, and she followed as he led her down the steps to the tavern. "A proper bath did you some good, eh? You look quite the highborn lady you are again, don't you, little bird?"

Her cheeks coloured. "It feels good to be clean again," she acknowledged. "And I'm sure you feel the same way, my lord."

"Not your lord," he said automatically, but his voice held no contempt. Then he laughed. "Aye, little bird, I suppose I do. I don't smell like that buggering corpse we came across on the road anymore, do I? Gods, he smelled of shite."

Sansa drew back suddenly, stung by his callous tone. She thought about the way the poor soldier had looked like he was torn from the inside out, about the way that he had sobbed and choked and pleaded for mercy. Sandor's final blow had been his salvation, but she wondered now if he had taken pleasure in the way the blade had sunken into flesh.

She had half a mind to admonish him for his apathetic comment, but then they were arriving at the entrance to the tavern and she dropped the subject with a curl of the lip.

The room was made of long beams of sanded wood and had higher ceilings than the other rooms of the inn. It housed four long, wizened tables and Sandor led her immediately to the emptiest of them. The tavern was crowded and rang out with lively chatter and boisterous laughter. The majority of its patrons were ruddy-faced men, but a few serving wenches flitted between the tables, carrying tankards of ale and steaming plates that emitted smells that made Sansa's stomach grumble.

Sandor beckoned one of them over. "Two bowls of whatever stew you've cooking. A plate of pork each. Hot wine for me, cider for the girl, and two helpings of bread. Go on, now."

The serving wench looked to be quite a bit older than Sansa was, with the same dull blond hair of the innkeep and his sons, though hers was long and pinned behind her head. She was round-cheeked and spilled out of her tightly-laced bodice, all flesh and patchy skin and freckles. The girl, clearly terrified of Sandor, had been staring at the polished surface of the tabletop as he ordered, and nodded primly when he was done, refusing to look at the bad side of his face. She did, however, shoot Sansa a look of pity as she wheeled away into the kitchen.

If Sandor noticed, he said nothing. He was staring ahead determinedly and made what appeared to Sansa to be a pointed effort not to speak. After a few minutes of this awkward silence, Sansa began to mislike the discomfort that clouded between them and thought to break it, but the blond-haired serving girl was back, this time carrying their food.

Sansa set into her meal eagerly. The stew was hot and thick down her throat, filling her belly with warmth, and the bread was baked with rye and oats and tasted far fresher than the dry palace bread they had finished only a few nights earlier. Sansa had never quite grown to like the taste of pork, but it was hot, and its heavy, smoky taste reminding her of the feasts back at home at Winterfell, so she wolfed it down, dousing her meal with sweet apple cider. The taste was so good that she forgot her table manners and devoured her meal without much regard for staying clean or polite. She was swiping the last of the stew up with a crust of still-steaming bread when the two men sat down across from them.

Immediately, she felt Sandor tense next to her.

The men were clearly soldiers. They had a sturdy, proud look to them, and Sansa noted the glint of steel at their sides. One of them was short and bearded and the other tall and red-cheeked, but the both of them were garbed in matching Tully armour and cloaks. Her mother's house, she noted. Surely Sandor wouldn't mark these particular soldiers as enemies.

"Good evening, m'lord," said the shorter of the two to Sandor, his tone light and friendly. "Who might you two be?"

Sandor eyed them coolly. "Who wants to know?"

The shorter man laughed jovially. "Someone's a grumpy one, ain't he?" he said. He still didn't seem to have truly noticed Sansa beside her hulking companion. "M'name's Arrel and my companion 'ere has the honour to be Stefon."

"Tully men, no doubt?"

Arrel nodded. "Aye, ser. And what'll your name be?"

Sandor said, "Haldon,". Sansa inclined her head mildly at this. When he had bid her choose her new name, he hadn't told her what his was to be, and she was intrigued by his choice. She wondered vaguely if he had known a Haldon once. Perhaps in another life.

Sansa was silent as a different serving girl took the two men's orders. This one was taller and bonier, with a gap between her two front teeth and a smattering of freckles on her cheeks and chin.

When she had gone, the other man turned to her suddenly. Stefon, he'd been called. He had blond hair that was a closer shade of yellow to the Lannisters' gold than to the dull brand of the innkeeper's family's. His eyes were blue rather than Joffrey's celery-green, but there was a sharpness to them that reminded Sansa of Joff all the same. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and layered. "Who's the girl?"

Sandor answered before she could. "She's my wife," he said gruffly.

"Lucky man you are!" Arrel laughed blithely. His eyes took in her appearance appreciatively. "And what a beauty she is! Where did you find such a pretty young treasure?"

"White Harbour," he replied. His tone was still guarded. "Kill'd her father an' brother for her, too. Shite fighters they were. Fishermen aren't made for battle, but they challenged my claim on her all the same and died for her honour anyway."

Sansa couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. They hadn't discussed that aspect of their backstory. Across from her, Arrel's eyes had dropped guiltily from her form, but Stefon was peering at her unabashedly, blue eyes cold as ice.

"What's your name, girl?" he asked. He was looking directly at her and she felt the pressure of his stare.

"M-Melessa," Sansa replied. Her voice sounded thin and wobbly.

Stefon's eyes danced at the sign of her weakness. "Pretty name for a pretty girl," he spoke, his voice barely louder than a whisper. Something about his tone was almost snakelike.

Sandor's expression hardened fractionally. He looked as if he was about to say something, but the bearded man spoke before he could. "Where're you two off to, then?" he wanted to know.

"Up North," he said. Sansa was surprised that he hadn't lied about their destination, too. "Winterfell, if we can get there."

Arrel's eyes widened. "Haven't you heard?" he said. "Winterfell was sacked by the Ironborn! Burnt down by the young lord Theon Greyjoy, too."

Sansa's heart seized in her chest. "What?" Sandor asked darkly.

"Indeed, ser. They say that he returned from the Iron Isles when the Young Wolf had advanced to Riverrun and attacked when guard was down. Took the castle easy enough, they did, but he couldn't much hold it. It were put to the torch, Winterfell."

"And what of the Starks in Winterfell?" Sansa blurted out before Sandor could stop her.

Arrel looked at her curiously. "Well, the Young Wolf an' his mother had already gone up to Riverrun, hadn't they? They're on their way to the Twins for a wedding now. That's where we're heading, too."

"And his brothers?" Sansa choked out. She didn't care about their travel plans. "What of his two brothers?"

"Why, they're dead, m'lady. Kill'd, in fact, by Theon Greyjoy himself. Bodies burnt, I heard. Mighty shame, if you ask me."

Sansa blinked. For a moment, the soldier's words didn't process correctly. Then she heard, truly heard what he was saying. For a moment she thought she would faint. Her head rushed and swayed. She heard waves crash in her ears. Then Sansa stood abruptly, the bench shrieking beneath her, and fled the tavern.

* * *

By the time Sansa had reached the stairs, her breaths came mingled with raw, ragged sobs. When she flung open her door, not bothering to bolt it behind her, she threw herself onto her bed and stuffed her head into a pillow to hold her screams. _Her brothers, her little brothers. Bran, who had loved to climb. And Rickon… Rickon was but a babe. Her baby brothers, killed by somebody she had thought of as a brother as well._ At one point in time, Sansa had even thought she might be married to Theon Greyjoy, the lean youth who she had known all her life. Now, he had slaughtered her baby brothers and destroyed her home.

Sansa let out a shriek, though it was strangled by the pillow. Her face had grown salty with tears. Her brothers dead, her home destroyed. But how was this possible? Hadn't she just been home? With her mother and father and sister and brothers, whole and home and alive and together. Now her father was missing his head and it was her fault. Her little brothers had been butchered. Her home was destroyed, her sister was missing and here she was, on in a tiny inn in the middle of the Riverlands surrounded by men all who wanted something from her. Well, _she_ wanted her mother. She wanted to go _home_. She ought never to have left Winterfell.

Grief swirled in Sansa's chest, but eventually her screams faded to hollow sobs. It was then that Sandor entered her room, shutting the door behind him firmly. She ignored the sound of the bolt latching and did not speak as his heavy footsteps moved toward her and stopped before her bed.

"You shouldn't have gone off in such a hurry," he said. His tone held little conviction. In fact, was that a note of pity she heard? "Had to come up with quite a story to feed those Tully men to explain why you did."

Sansa didn't turn. Her chest heaved and stung. Her _baby_ brothers. Her _home_.

Sandor sighed and sat awkwardly at the edge of her bed. In the next moment, she felt a gentle pressure on her arm. It was his hand, uncomfortable and out of place, but desperately, craving touch, she seized it. When Sansa finally sat up from her pillow, a moment later, her head spun messily. Then she flung herself into Sandor Clegane's chest.

He was still and tense, and for a moment, Sansa feared that he would fling her off. For some reason, the thought of this rejection made her heart tighten even more, her grief growing even more palpable. Then, after a pregnant pause, his arms tightened protectively around her and she sank into his embrace. Sandor was large and muscled, his oversized figure usually quite intimidating, but now, he radiated heat and warmth. As Sansa allowed herself to be pulled close to his body, she felt safer than she had in a long time.

Sansa cried until she was too exhausted to do anything but close her heavy eyes and fall into a light, uneasy sleep. The pressure of Sandor's body against hers did not disappear as she drifted away. It was comforting. It reminded her, almost, of her mother holding her. Almost, but not quite.

She dreamed of her brothers and sister, laughing and carefree. They were playing in Winterfell before she had been betrothed to Joffrey and gone to King's Landing. Even her father's bastard Jon Snow was there with them. In the dream, Bran could walk again. In sleep, the dream was almost vivid enough that Sansa could forget about what had become of her house and imagine that she would return to the dream. Almost, but not quite.


	7. Dream

Sandor

 _In the dream, he was dying._

 _He lay upright, his back pressed against a tree, and the pain was perhaps greater than any other pain he'd ever felt, save for those fatal burns his brother had gifted him with all those years ago. He wasn't sure quite exactly where his wound was, but he could already tell that it had festered. His brow was heavy with sweat and crusted over with a thin film of half-dried blood. His body ached, and when he tried to breathe, the air came shallow and ragged and his breaths burned in his chest. There was a brief moment when he tried to roll himself over to inspect whatever wound he had acquired, to see if he could still escape his fate, but he found himself too weak to move. A coil of pain shot through one of his legs, and when he looked, he saw his that his thigh was torn open. It was infected, too, judging by its greenish-brown tint. Not a recent cut, and now he would die for it._

A fitting death _, he thought grimly to himself._ A nasty rot for a brutal killer who had put so many men in the ground that he'd stopped counting their numbers.

 _Suddenly, though, a finger of fear ran down his spine. Who would watch over the little bird if he were to die? She was just a girl, a girl too weak to care for herself, and she had the kind of face that made men want to devour her, but they would do nothing but rip her apart. Pretty girl. Rich copper hair, unblemished skin, and those damned blue eyes. Tully blue eyes. Maybe if she'd been uglier she could have passed herself off as a boy, but no. When he died, they would rape her and kill her and maybe keep a hunk of her hair, her pretty hair, to remember her by. He shifted, bile rising in his throat, and then there she was before him._

 _Her hair was unbound and red as blood, her skin milky white against the grey of her gown. She was more beautiful and terrible than she had ever been before. Hers was the kind of beauty they wrote songs about, he thought, a chuckle heaving in his chest. She was the kind of maiden that soldiers and knights and ugly old dogs alike pledged their lives to. He wanted to cry for a moment, and then laugh, and then he felt that his cheeks were wet, though whether with mirth or sadness he couldn't say._

 _The fire started suddenly, catching out of nowhere and spreading quickly through the dry grass that the girl stood in. At first, it just barely kissed her heels and she didn't seem to notice, but then the flame caught onto her skirts and lit up her dress. He tried to call out to her but found that he couldn't: his throat was choked with the festering taste of thirst and death and disease. He wanted to scream at her, but he could do nothing but gag and retch as the flames devoured her, almost the same colour as her hair. It happened far quicker than it had right to._

 _The girl before him screamed and sobbed in feverish agony and ecstasy. She danced in the flames, and then he awoke._

* * *

Sunlight was streaming in through the window as he awoke, casting its warmth onto the rest of the room. Sandor woke in a dull panic, but he had grown used to the fire-related nightmares over the years and did not start. His body was sore and cramped but not throbbing with infection and when he swung his legs out from beneath him, he found that his thigh was uninjured. Next to him, something warm shifted.

He froze.

Indeed, curled up next to him in the bed was Sansa Stark, and he was suddenly flooded with memories of the previous night. Sandor was unfamiliar and uncomfortable with dealing with crying maidens, but the girl had looked so heartbroken that he had reluctantly made a move to comfort her. Besides, her poorly-concealed sobs were echoing throughout the hall when he approached the room. He supposed that nobody would care much about the tears of a pretty-faced girl supposedly wed to such a monster as he, but he silenced her the same.

Sandor slid out of bed slowly, careful not to wake its other occupant. When she woke, she would still be fresh in her grief, and he didn't have the heart to deal with it. He didn't even really know much how to deal with it, even. A laughing voice in the back of his mind rose up, quick as bile. _You don't, dog? You know exactly what she's feeling, don't you? Have you not been just where she is?_ The voice heaved up a chortle and the sound of it was terrible. _You know just how to deal with it, don't you, hound?_

 _Stop it._

Sandor closed his eyes and eased the voice away. He wouldn't think of that.

His room was only the next door down from hers. He shut the door of her room firmly behind him but left his own open a crack to hear any intruders who might fall upon her. What a shame to have wasted good coin on a separate room for himself when he'd spent the night curled uncomfortable on the little bird's bed. Thinking of the innkeep's shrewd eyes roaming the girl's body, he had half a mind to win back his coin by sword but remembered the malnourished blond children crowding the inn and dropped the thought. He was a hard man, certainly, but not an unnecessarily cruel one.

In his room, Sandor found his armour where he had deposited it the previous night before supper, against a chair. They would ride again today. He had decided as much after the girl had fallen asleep in his arms. Her brothers were dead, her home sacked. She could scream and sob about it as much as she liked, but it wouldn't change the fact that it was the truth. There would be no safety for her in Winterfell. No, they would have to find solace elsewhere, and it was plain that elsewhere would be with the rest of her wolf family at Riverrun, or the Twins, as the man had said last night.

As Joff's sworn shield, he had oft been privy to the inner workings of the council. Not to say that he had been allowed to attend the small council meetings (or that it had interested him to do so; he had more of a mind for military planning than for civil complaints or organising the fat king's feasts), but Joffrey liked to talk and it was easy enough to let your guard down in front of your loyal hound. Sandor had heard what they said about Robb Stark, eldest son and heir of the little bird's late father: that he was fierce in battle but a greenboy still; that he had cast aside his Frey bride to marry a Westerling out of duty; that he was as honourable and stupid as his father before him had been. He was a boy, Sandor knew, playing at the game of war, and there was a prickle of unease of playing the girl right into his inexperienced hands, but of course that was but a foolish thought. The little bird belonged with her family. With her brother, the Young Wolf, King-in-the-North, fool and green as he was, and with her mother. There would be no other place for her.

There was a brief flash of a snow-topped cottage on the outskirts of a little village and of a life he could live there. He would build wooden houses and buildings until his back ached, but he would be rewarded with warm food, fur boots, tubs of ale from villagers who grew used to his scars. Then he would tread home and find a red-haired wife in his bed, warm and heavy with his child and willing, and she would smile up at him and whisper his name and take his face in her small hands and she would be his and only his and completely his.

It would be so easy. The little bird would be helpless on her own and he knew that she had developed a wary, delicate trust in him. All he would have to do was find some sad little cluster of mud-soaked houses and settle down there. He found himself _craving_ a life with her, something he hadn't let himself think about in years. As a boy he'd thought that he would be a brave knight and rescue the fairest of maidens, then marry her and lord over his keep after his brother's death with a litter of dark-haired children.

It was ironic, in a way. Before his brother had shoved him into the fire, he had been quite like the little bird, with a head full of songs and stories. After all, Sansa Stark certainly was the fairest of maidens. He'd seen none who could compare, not even Cersei Lannister in her youth. And he had, in a way, rescued her. But his brother still walked and kept their keep and there would be no place for Sandor to make the girl his lady wife and give her a family. There would be none of that, and he was fool for even thinking of it. Scarred hounds didn't wed beautiful little birds. End of story.

No, there would be no lord's life or humble village family for them. Instead, Sandor would return the girl to her brother and her mother and then he would disappear. He wouldn't pledge himself as bannerman for any other lord, and mayhaps if his brother did not live he would have crossed the Narrow Sea or found himself a home in a village, but alas, he lived. So Sandor would kill his brother and most likely die trying.

His security in the knowledge that he would do this one good thing had always been a constant, even as he butchered the innocent at the command of the Lannisters. He knew that his thirst to kill his brother was not out of a selfless desire to rid the world of such an evil, saving innumerable innocent lives in the process. Not at all: Sandor wanted to kill his brother for what he had done to him, and to their father, and most likely to their sister, though she had been older than them both and he would never be able to prove his brother's involvement. His bloodthirst for fratricide was born out of desire for revenge and nothing else.

Still, though, he couldn't help but wonder if this act would help to make up for all the bad that he had done. Perhaps he could be purged of his sins. A romantic thought, he knew, but he held it close all the same.

Sandor had spent a good quarter of an hour scrubbing the cracked, dried blood off of his armour the previous night. He had always preferred plain, sturdy steel plates and mail, nothing as pretty as the Kingslayer's famed golden armour, but thoroughly cleaned and shining faintly, his armour was an impressive sight all the same, he thought, pleased. He took his time in fastening his armour and thought as he did.

When he was suited up, Sandor left the room and made his way down the stairs. The little bird's door was still closed. In daylight, the tavern was emptier and shabbier than it had appeared when it was lively and full of laughter the night before. The tables and benches were chipped and stained, the wooden floors cracked and muddied, and as sunlight filtered into the room through its open windows, it caught in the dust coating the walls. There wasn't nearly the crowd that had gathered for the evening meal, but the two Tully swordsmen were sitting at the same bench they'd dined at the night before. He sat next to them and felt them flinch at the sight of him in his armour. Without his plate and mail, he knew he was fearsome yet, but with, he looked the true soldier that he was.

The shorter, bearded man who'd called himself Arrel was nothing to worry about, he had decided already. Nothing more than a loose-lipped jolly idiot who was more suited as a fool than a soldier, but there was nothing malicious in his wide-eyed gaze. The other one, Stefon, looked quite the greenboy with his pretty blond hair and girlishly long lashes, and while there had been something Sandor hadn't liked in the way his eyes had raked over the girl the night before, he knew that he would pose no problems. Too skinny and weak to be any kind of a threat.

He sat. They were breaking their fast on pottage, dried bread and cured ale. The ale wasn't nearly strong enough to appeal to his tastes, but when Arrel offered to pour him some, he inclined his head.

"Good morrow, ser," the stupid one greeted him when he was finished pouring.

Sandor set his heavy eyes on him. "Save your bloody sers," he said.

Arrel looked sheepish. "My 'pologies."

There was a brief moment of terse silence before Sandor spoke again. "You'll be off today, then?"

"Aye. Wedding at the Twins is to take place in a fortnight and it'll take us about that long to get there from here."

Sandor nodded and took a long, deep sip from the tankard. "Thought the Young Wolf married that Westerling girl he deflowered," he said eventually, casually. "Whose wedding is it to be, then?"

"Lord Edmure Tully's," Arrel was quick to supply. "Heard that Walder Frey accepted 'im instead of the King-in-the-North on account of his relation to the boy's mother."

A pitiful exchange, in Sandor's humble opinion, but the two were Tully men pledged to their liege lord and he had no desire to insult their loyalty over something as meaningless as that. He spoke no more on it. "We'll ride with you, then," he said instead, and watched the two men raise their eyebrows. "I've no love of the cold. I have no wish to freeze my arse off in the snow as winter comes; I'm a soldier. I'd always planned to pledge my sword to a lord, and why settle for a lord when you can have a king, boy as he is?"

It was a sorry excuse for a story, he knew, but there was nothing more said on it. In fact, there was little else said at all—he finished his tankard of ale in a swift gulp and then rose, promising the men that he'd fetch his wife and meet them in the stable.

When he returned to her room, the little bird was awake and was sitting blearily on her bed. Her eyes were still red and puffy from crying but the tears had dried.

"We ride again today, girl," he told her, and watched her face sink.

"Where?" she asked, and her voice was hoarse with poorly-bottled grief.

"To the Twins, with the Tully men from last night. Your lord uncle Edmure Tully is to wed a Frey daughter and your mother and brother are attending." She perked up slightly at that, but not by much. "Girl," he found himself adding in spite of himself. "You've family to live for yet."

She looked up at him with those damned blue eyes and he held her gaze for a moment longer than perhaps he should have. He thought of his dream, of her dancing on flame and him being unable to save her. A long moment passed and still she peered up at him. He knew the kind thing, the _gallant, knightly_ thing to do would be to comfort her, but then he thought of the way he'd held her tightly the night before and he was flushed with a burning sensation of regret.

Then she reached up a delicate white hand and pressed it to his cheek, just as she had the fateful night of the Blackwater.

For a moment, Sandor wanted nothing more than to run his fingers through her hair and draw her to him, or to fall to his knees and bury his head in her skirts and cry and beg for mercy. His body itched and he was overcome with longing guilt and hunger and lust and greed and he thought again of the little cottage, of her belly heavy with his child, of his name on her lips…

But he was no romantic and he was no fool and it wouldn't due to dwell on things that could never happen. He could see, though, what _might_ happen. The little bird that he had stolen away from her cage in King's Landing was sensitive and delicate and so far from home: if he let her, she would develop an attachment to him, he knew. He scared her still, he could tell, and yet… yet she looked more and more openly upon his burnt face as the days went by. Yet she had allowed him to press her tightly against him in her grief the night before. He realized that she still, in some warped, twisted way, pictured him as her true knight, rescuing her from her tower, and if he let her, she would mark him her guardian and cling to this semblance of safety.

Scarred, ugly dogs didn't belong with pretty highborn birds. So, trembling, he wrenched her hand from his face and strode out of the room.


	8. Stefon

Sansa

The pressure of the saddle between her thighs had grown familiar throughout their week of travel so far, but Sansa did not welcome the feeling as she mounted the horse. As soon as she had managed to balance herself, Sandor pulled himself up as well, this time sitting in front of her, like he had the night that they had fled King's Landing. At first, she thought it must be because he didn't want to look at her and her heart contracted painfully, but then she realized that it was to leave space for his sword to be swung out front of him. The thought didn't make her feel any better.

They hadn't spoken since he had pulled himself from her embrace. It felt like hours had passed since then, but Sansa knew that it had really only been a handful of minutes. Thinking of his reaction made her body burn in humiliation and shame. Why hadn't he wanted her to touch him? What exactly had she done wrong? He had held her tightly just the night before, she remembered. What was so different about her embrace this time? And, most importantly, why had it hurt her so much when he had rebuffed her?

It was selfish of her to think so much on it. Her little brothers were dead and she lived. They had been murdered and burnt and here she was, living and breathing and moping around about a man who had turned away from the palm of her hand. _Stupid, awful, selfish girl_ … Still, Sansa could not tear the image from her head.

She had thought that she had recognized something in the way he had looked at her the night of the Blackwater. She had thought that there was an edge there, that mayhaps their glossiness was in part due to lust; to desire. Sansa knew that he thought her naïve, but she was less innocent than she appeared, and she had _thought_ she had seen something there… She had thought that he wanted her.

Sansa closed her eyes and tried to think of other things. _Selfish girl_ , she thought again angrily, her cheeks warm with regret. Why did she even care whether or not he wanted her? In fact, it would be far safer if he didn't. As she had realized just days prior, it would be too easy for him to take what he wanted from her without her consent. Wasn't it a good thing that what he wanted wasn't something that her body could give?

She wondered what it was, then. A lordship, perhaps, but no, that didn't seem Sandor's way. Money, certainly, but she knew that he hadn't been for wanting of it as a member of Joffrey's Kingsguard, and it seemed to her to be far too risky of a ploy to steal her away from the capital if all he sought was monetary compensation. Sansa scratched at an itch on the bridge of nose.

"Girl," somebody said. Then, when she didn't respond immediately, there was a cough. " _Girl!_ " the voice said again, this time more insistently, and Sansa was jerked rather suddenly out of her reverie. She straightened up and swiveled slightly on the horse, still holding on tightly to Sandor in front of her. This new position of him in front was rather uncomfortable on her part, she noted, brow furrowed.

The person talking to her was the blond soldier from the previous night. Sansa's nose twitched again. "Yes?" she said quietly, not sure if she was supposed to speak with him but unwilling to ask her companion.

"Who are you?" the soldier said, his lips curling into an extremely Joffrey-esque smirk. Stefon, his name had been.

Sansa swallowed. "My name is Melessa," she recited monotonously. "I am wife to Hardon and I was born to a fisherman in White Harbour."

Stefon waved a hand impatiently. "Yes, yes, I know all that," he said. "But who are you _really_?"

Her heart leapt into her throat. Did he know? Yes, he must know. But how? How had he found out? Had her red hair really been so identifiable, and so quickly? Oh, she had been so terribly foolish not to wear her headscarf to supper! It was just that it was ever so uncomfortable and she had just been so excited to have washed her hair that she was loath to cover it…

When she didn't answer, Stefon spoke again. "We know that you are Melessa, the fisherman's daughter from White Harbour, wed to _Hardon_ ," – and here his tone grew almost flirtatious – "and possessor of the most beautiful head of hair I've ever seen. But who are you really? Who were you before your husband took you from your family?"

In front of her, she felt Sandor stiffen almost imperceptibly, but Sansa relaxed slightly at his words. He didn't know who she really was after all. She was, though, somewhat taken aback at his gall and daring, despite recognizing the teasing edge in his voice. It wasn't many who were brave enough to jest about the Hound, and even if he didn't know that it _was_ the Hound, he was still a scary man with a scarier sword. She took time in choosing her next words.

"I was a sister," Sansa said finally, her voice smaller and sadder than she'd intended for it to be. "I had three brothers and a sister and a bastard brother who lived with us as well." She wasn't sure why she had added Jon Snow, her father's bastard and the bane of her mother's existence, but really, he _was_ her fourth brother. Torn from her family, she missed even him.

Stefon's eyes were sharp. "And these four brothers of yours didn't do a thing when a frighteningly large man made to steal their pretty little sister away from them? They didn't fight?"

Sansa's lips parted, cheeks colouring unflatteringly. She hadn't thought that far ahead. It had probably been a mistake to be truthful at all, now that she thought about it.

Luckily for her, Sandor saved her from having to answer. "Aye, they fought. As I told you before," he grunted, "they fought. They fought with all their might. And I cut them down all the same."

* * *

When they made camp that night, it was much closer to the beaten-down path than Sansa had grown used to. With just her and Sandor, their tendency had oft been to steer as far away from potential human interaction as possible, but she supposed it was less of a worry that they would be waylaid if there were three sword-bearing soldiers instead of just the one.

As soon as they had dismounted, Sansa set about collecting kindling and tinder for the campfire. It was part of their routine, after all. Not a moment later, though, Arrel, the shorter of the two soldiers, was brushing her away and shaking his head back and forth wildly.

"No, no, no!" he exclaimed, face still set in its eternal smile. "Such a pretty maiden as yourself has no business getting her lovely hands dirty with work such as this! Sit down, m'lady, and I'll prepare to fire for you."

"She's certainly no maiden," Sandor snapped from behind her, but he didn't object further.

Sansa sat obediently, curling her legs underneath her skirts. She wasn't sure exactly how she felt about being set aside. The Sansa Stark of a fortnight ago would never have even offered to help start the fire in the first place and would have been most pleased that a kind man such as Arrel was imploring her to rest. It was, after all, the kind and noble thing to do. If he had been a knight, the Sansa Stark of a fortnight ago would have dubbed him a true one. He wasn't a knight, though: Arrel was naught more than a foot soldier. And, Sansa realized, she was not the Sansa Stark of a fortnight ago, either. That Sansa had been foolish, just like Arya had always said, though she had not said it in such pretty words. _This_ Sansa Stark felt rather irked at being set aside in such a manner when she knew that she could have helped.

It mattered not: soon the foursome sat in a circle around the fire and its warmth melted Sansa's twinge of annoyance clean away. It was still light enough to hunt, and Stefon, who had with him a bow hand-carved of blackthorn wood and several goose-feathered arrows, shot a bird. He proved himself to be a rather good shot and Sansa wondered if perhaps she had misjudged him the previous night. She hadn't liked the way he looked at her, true, but it had been unfair to compare him to Joffrey so quickly when he hadn't yet done anything truly wrong to her. In fact, he had cared enough to ask about her life, which, in retrospect, she supposed had been a kind thing to do. Were she truly the Hound's frightened young bride, it would have been a comfort to think about her family, she realized.

Raising her head, Sansa peered at Stefon through the flames. He was rather comely, she noticed, with his pink cheeks and long eyelashes. He was tall, too, and closer to her own age than either of the other two men. Perhaps she would find a tentative friend in him. She thought to speak to him, but Arrel was rumbling on and on again and her mother's scolding voice reminded her that she ought never to interrupt.

"'ve got a wife meself," he was saying to no one in particular. "Mind you, not half so fair as you, m'lady, but she were a sweet thing in her younger days, she were. Serra, she's called. Bore me a strong son, but childbirth made her ugly. Wonder what childbirth'll do to you, m'lady!"

That, he found funny. He guffawed loudly at his own joke, and the sound was both harsh and comforting to Sansa's ears. She hadn't heard a laugh such as that in quite some time and it brought back memories of her brothers in the Godswood at Winterfell. Her eyes watered.

"Oh, seven pardons, girl!" Arrel said, no doubt noticing her expression. She inclined her head, hoping that he would stop talking, but it was not to be. "You've got proper birthing hips on you, sweetling, no need to worry. You'll do well in childbed, I'm sure."

Sansa nodded curtly again, the talk of childbirth making her nauseous. She had grown up always knowing that her job would be to marry a high lord and birth him strong sons and beautiful daughters – at one point, she had thought that they would be Joffrey's sons and daughters, and had even been thrilled with the prospect –, but still, in her innocence, she knew not truly how childbirth worked. Her mother had at one point tried to explain, albeit rather clumsily, the goings-on of the marriage bed, but she was still clueless to how a child was truly made. Her mother had spoken of lying back, spreading your legs and doing your duty, and had made it seem rather painful, though she had mentioned that there could be pleasure to find, depending on the husband… mayhaps Sansa would ask her about it when they were reunited at the Twins.

Sansa thought of the Twins and the wedding to be held there. She had heard that it was the union of her uncle, Lord Edmure Tully of Riverrun, and a Frey daughter. Sansa had never met her Uncle Edmure but she knew he was her mother's younger brother: to Catelyn Stark what Bran and Rickon were— _had_ been to her.

She had never been to a wedding before, but she had long dreamed of her own—it had been a favourite activity of hers as a girl to picture what her marriage ceremony would be like. She would wear a long silken gown, no doubt, and her maiden's cloak would be lovely, to be sure, but the cloak her husband-to-be would exchange it for would be far, far lovelier. It had brought her joy to picture what that husband would look like as well. Handsome, no doubt. For a certain time, Sansa had thought that husband would be Joffrey. She had allowed herself to picture their wedding in the Sept of Baelor, and the Queenship that would come with her golden groom. She would be a good queen, she hoped. Even if the smallfolk didn't love her yet, the younger Sansa had been convinced that she could woo them; that they would remember her as fondly as they did the Good Queen Alysanne even long after she died…

But those had been the foolish daydreams of a stupid girl. Her handsome golden groom had cut off her father's head and made her look at it. The smallfolk that she had been so convinced would love her had mobbed her and tried to pull her from her horse. Only Sandor had stopped them, she remembered. It was interesting how often Sandor seemed to come to her rescue. For the second time that day, she wondered _why_. _Why_ had he risked his life to save her when he didn't seem to want anything from her in return?

Sansa sighed and ripped the last of the bird's meat from its needle-like bone, dropping the cartilage into the dirt before her. The sun had set properly now, flooding their campsite with a heavy black shadow. It grew colder too; colder, in fact, than it had been on those nights that Sandor and Sansa had camped alone. The thought filled her with a pleasant feeling. The colder the nights were, the further north they got, she thought to herself. Perhaps she wasn't going home, not _yet_ , but she was certainly getting closer.

"I think I'll retire to bed," Sansa said primly, content with the state of her musings.

A few minutes later, she was folded into her pallet, pulling her roughspun blanket up to her chin to savour whatever warmth it offered. Arrel and Stefon had retired along with her, though they had no bedding of their own, and they lay close to the fire.

Sansa looked at Stefon with the same cautious curiosity as earlier one last time before she closed her eyes. She was too distracted to notice Sandor's watchful eye following her gaze. She was long asleep before she realized that he did not unfurl himself from his upright position until he was absolutely sure that the two soldiers were asleep. Mayhaps even if she had noticed, she wouldn't have understood just exactly what that meant.


	9. Saviour

Sansa

It happened on their ninth day of travel as a foursome.

She had only been asleep for a few hours when she was shaken awake. _It's far too early to ride_ , Sansa thought in annoyance as she peeled open her eyes. They were glazed over with a layer of sand and she had to blink several times before she could open them all the way. Sansa had been having quite a pleasant dream: she couldn't quite remember what was happening in it, but as she woke, she had the distinct feeling of something warm and pleasurable melting away.

Sansa blinked again, peering blearily at the sky. Sure enough, it was still black, the slumbering moon pale upon its bed of flickering stars. So why was Sandor waking her so early? Then she felt the pressure of whoever had woken her on her arm again and realized that it wasn't Sandor at all: the palm of their hand was far smoother than his coarse grip. They smelled different too, she realized. Sandor's scent of musky sweat and the leather of his saddle had grown familiar and even somewhat comforting to her, but this person smelled earthier, of dirt or grass, and under that, of the tangy scent of alcohol.

For a moment, Sansa's stomach seeped with panic, but then a familiar blond-headed face poked out of the bush near her and she recognized Stefon before her. She was about to ask him why he had woken her, but he seemed to sense that she was about to speak and pressed a finger to his lips in warning. He beckoned, and perhaps quite foolishly, Sansa uncurled herself from her bedroll, shedding the blanket from her shoulders, and followed.

She trailed after him for some time, unsure of where exactly he was leading her and acutely aware of just how far away from camp they were getting. She grew slightly wary, but remembered how she'd thought to befriend him the previous night and tried to calm herself. _You're being unreasonable_ , she told herself. _He has been nothing but kind to you._ Ahead of her, Stefon turned back to check if she was still following.

When he finally stopped, Sansa examined her surroundings. In front of them, a small creek seeped smoothly through a path of craggy boulders. It wound its way through the forest's pebbled bed of leaves and loam with an impressive degree of subtlety, but as they approached, Sansa could hear the gentle rumble of the water grow louder. It was beautiful. It was also the cleanest body of water that they had yet to come across, and she thought that perhaps Sandor would allow her to rinse off.

Stefon had sat himself under a tall, gnarled oak tree and Sansa perched herself next to him. "When did you find this place?" she breathed.

He smiled faintly. "After the meal when I went to make water. Beautiful, isn't it?"

Beautiful was not strong enough a word to describe it: the surface of the creek was glassy-smooth and coloured a deep murky blue that reminded Sansa of the colour of her mother's eyes. "Yes," she murmured, still enraptured.

Stefon looked at her squarely with a specific brand of intensity that made Sansa turn her attention away from the river to meet his gaze.

The two were silent for a moment. She realized, with a start, just how close he had leaned in towards her. From this proximity, she could see the contours of his face more clearly: his Lannister-blond hair hung shaggily around his shoulders, but his cheeks and chin were smooth and hairless. Perhaps he was yet too green to grow a proper beard. Truly, he couldn't have been more than a handful of years older than Sansa was. Up close, he looked even younger. Stefon's eyes were wide and blue, like her own, but his colour was lighter; less vivid, and those eyes were threaded with thick eyelashes. He even had puffy lips like Joff's. _He is quite comely_ , Sansa thought to herself, and indeed he was. He had just the kind of fair, Southron looks that Sansa had daydreamed about as a girl, but now, after King's Landing, she found them quite feminine for her tastes. _I would prefer someone with a bit more of an edge,_ she thought to herself. _Someone rougher._

Then Stefon pressed his lips to her own.

For a moment, Sansa was frozen with shock. His lips felt wormy and stiff against her own, and he tasted of the unseasoned bird meat they'd eaten for supper. It was only when his tongue began needling its way into her mouth that she mustered up all of her strength and shoved him off of her, whimpering. A glistening trail of spittle dotted the corner of his upper lip as he pulled away.

When Stefon looked at her again, his eyes were crazed. "I know who you really are," he said loudly. "You're—you're Sansa Stark of Winterfell and that man," – he gestured vaguely in the direction they'd come from – "is the Hound. I grew up outside of Riverrun; my liege lord is your uncle, you know. We all heard about your birth, and when the King-in-the-North and his mother made camp there, everyone knew that Sansa Stark was being held hostage in King's Landing. As for him, well, his horrible burnt face told me as much, and it's a rare thing to see such a large man anyways. A huge, half-burnt man is unheard of, really. Besides, everyone knows that the Hound turned craven at the Battle of Blackwater and deserted. Wasn't sure if it was you at first, but then you talked about your family, your brothers and sister and such, and 'course we all know about the Starks of Winterfell. Plus, you're too pretty to be lowborn. You haven't got the look of most common smallfolk girls, believe me. I've seen plenty enough of them to tell the difference."

By the time he had finished his rapid-fire monologue, Stefon was breathing hard and Sansa had begun to tremble like a leaf. _Oh no, oh no, oh no._ He knew who they were. He had figured it out, and he was just barely a man grown. He couldn't even grow a beard. That meant that they had left too much of a trail, if he'd been so quick to follow it. Oh, she was so _stupid_ to have spoken about her family.

Sansa's heart pulsed and palpitated in her chest, her vision growing blurrier by the second, and for one awful, awful moment, she thought that she might just faint. But in the next, she grasped hold of herself. If he was truly a Tully man, then he had no reason to harm her. Best not to let him see her fear and unease.

She cleared her throat of the phlegm that had started to build in it. "I—I am Sansa Stark," she admitted. His eyes lit up in triumph. "I—you are clever to realize this, my lord." He wasn't a lord at all, but in her desperation, Sansa had fallen back to the ladylike manners she had been pressed to uphold her whole life.

Stefon made no effort to correct her. "Then he's kidnapped you, hasn't he?" he said instead, his voice taking on a queer quality. "The Hound, the great brute. And he claims to be your husband! Has he stolen away your maidenhead, my lady? Aye, he must have, the beast. No great lord will wish to marry a tainted maiden, even as beautiful as yourself." Stefon was rambling now, his words slipping into one another in their haste to escape his tongue, and he left no pause for Sansa to correct him. "He's spoiled you, but I can save you, m'lady! I can take you away from him to your brother at the Twins. If we leave while he sleeps, we can get enough of a head start to beat him there! I know it, my lady."

Stefon stood, pulling Sansa with him, but even when they were standing, he kept holding onto her hands, and his grip with ice-cold and tight enough to hurt. His nails were sharp, too, and they dug into the sensitive skin of her wrists. She let out another small whimper, but if he heard, Stefon made no acknowledgement of it.

He kept going. "We'll leave this very night, m'lady! I shall deliver you to your brother, the King-in-the-North, and he can give me you as a reward! I don't give a rat's arse if that horrible beast has already sullied your innocence, I'll take you anyway. I shall be your hero, like in the songs, m'lady. What say you?" His eyes, wide and crazed and hopeful, bore into her own.

"I—I cannot," Sansa said as fast as possible. . Surely he was not so foolish as to think that such a highborn girl as herself, maidenhead intact or elsewise, would ever be given to him. Her brother would never marry her to anybody of such low birth, even if she willed it. And, judging by the coil of fear and unease that had formed in her belly, she did not. "The... the Hound did not kidnap me, my lord, or rape me. He rescued me from King's Landing and now he means to bring me to my lady mother and brother at the Twins. I appreciate your kindness and chivalry, and I swear to you that upon our arrival at the Twins I shall see it repaid, but it is not so gravely needed as that. The Hound has not mistreated me or harmed me."

Mayhaps a younger, stupider Sansa Stark would have swooned at his offer, but _this_ Sansa had grown wary of blond-haired boys with quick tongues. He had said he wanted to be her saviour, her rescuer. Well, she already had one.

Shivering, Sansa wrapped her arms tightly around her body. Goose pimples rose on her skin, and against the fabric of her dress, she felt her nipples harden. All at once, Sansa wanted nothing more than to go back to camp. She felt sorry for Stefon, with his head full of stories and songs, but she didn't wish to be alone with him for a moment longer. Especially when she saw his gaze flick to her breasts.

At this point, Stefon's eyes had clouded over. "No," he said, "no. That isn't right. He's a beast, the Hound, everyone knows that. No… if you're a maiden still, they won't let me have you, don't you see? Don't you _see_?" He took a shuddering, raspy breath and squeezed her wrist so tightly that she winced. "I know that you want me, Sansa. I've seen the way that you look upon me. I saw you looking before you went to sleep. I saw you just now, before we kissed. You liked that, didn't you? And you can have me, don't you see? But only if you're no longer a maiden. Yes, it's perfect. We'll say the Hound was overcome with his desire and fucked you bloody and then your brother can give you to me. Nobody will doubt that, everyone knows the Hound is a monster. Yes, it's just perfect."

It took her more than a few seconds to truly understand what Stefon was babbling on about, but when she did, her mouth fell open and her stomach roiled. _NO_ , she wanted to cry, _STOP_ , but he had already pressed his mouth to hers again. Too roughly, he shoved her against the tree trunk, his wormy, Joffrey-like lips wet against her own. She struggled and kicked, but he was tall, taller than she, and far stronger. Sansa had not yet regained all of her strength from their week of bread and Stefon was a foot soldier in full armour. He grimaced in frustration at her struggling, and pinned her wrists above her head.

"Sansa, sweetling, _Sansa,_ stop, _Sansa_ , it's _alright._ I'll be gentle, I promise, it'll be quick, don't worry. I know you're frightened, but we must do this, sweetling, if I'm to have you. I'll be gentle with you. Stop _struggling_."

"No!" she sobbed, a salty tear dripping onto her neck. "I don't _want_ you to have me, you're mistaken! Please don't do this, please, no, _please!_ I don't want to marry you, I don't! Please don't do this." Sansa swallowed thickly. "Robb will never allow you to have me anyways," she went on, switching tactics. "You're too lowborn as it is, it's the truth. Even if I'm no longer a maiden, he'll marry me to some lord. He won't let you have me if you do this, please, _please!_ "

She had only meant to make him understand, but at her words, Stefon's face twisted into a horrible sneer. "Highborn cunt," he scoffed, pale eyes flashing dangerously. "Too lowborn. Too _lowborn._ And you're a snobbish highborn whore."

Sansa recoiled. Hadn't he just been professing his love for her not a moment ago? Summoning as much strength as she could, she set him with an icy stare through her tears and said, "Release me at once. If you do not, my brother Robb will have your head."

Unfortunately for her, this only seem to anger him further. "Highborn whore," he snapped at her, and bit at her neck. "I'll fuck you anyways, see how your brother likes that."

Sansa's scream tore itself out of her throat.

"Shut _up_ ," she heard Stefon hiss, but she could not. She managed another blood-curdling shriek before his sweaty palm curved tightly over her mouth and she could do naught but squirm and kick.

With his free hand, the man was threading his fingers through the laces of her dress in a desperate attempt to untie them. They were tightly knotted, and for a moment Sansa thought he might give up in frustration when they held, but then, to her horror, they came undone. She let out a desperate, wracking sob as her bodice loosened and slipped, bunching around her waist. Her breasts stiffened as they were exposed to the night's cold, and, sniffling, Sansa tried to cover them with her arms, but Stefon's grip held. She was certain that her brother would never marry her off to a lowborn soldier, but if she returned to him with her virtue soiled, she would still be ruined. And, _oh,_ her mother would be so disappointed…

She didn't notice the figure approaching until she heard the clang of his steel being drawn and saw the glint of his sword in the moonlight as he brought it down. There was an awful squelching sound and Stefon gave a feeble kind of gurgle. Then, all at once, he was keeling over her, the weight of his body pressing her deeper into the tree trunk. Sansa felt something sticky and wet slipping down her torso, and when she looked down, she saw, in horror, that she was stained crimson-red with blood. _Not her blood, not her blood_. Stefon's blood. His body still pressing against hers, Sansa gave a tiny mewl of her own. He smelled so strongly of urine and gore and sweat that fresh tears sprang into her eyes.

In the next moment, the figure heaved gave him a heave and Stefon was crumpling. His body hit the ground with a resounding _thud_ and immediately, the dry grass underneath him started to run red. For a moment, he lay cursing and moaning and blubbering, innards spilling out from the wound in his stomach, but then the sword was glinting again, and Stefon went very silent all at once.

Sansa looked up. It was, of course, Sandor, and this time, when she collapsed into him, howling, he didn't push her away.


	10. Aftermath

Sandor

Sansa's pretty grey dress was soaked through with the blood of the boy that Sandor had killed.

After her screams and sobs had finally retired to the back of her hoarse, ragged throat, she had mostly been quiet.

She shook, though.

She hadn't stopped shaking since Sandor had torn her attacker off of her body and plunged his sword into his soft, boyish flesh. He truly was soft, that one: he'd a body made of skin and flesh and pillowed, child-like dough instead of the hard slats of overlapping muscle that marked a soldier. Sandor relished any chance he got to use his blade, that was true. As he had told the girl in the Red Keep what felt like so long ago, killing was the sweetest thing there was. The feeling of steel thrusting into skin, bursting vessels and flesh; the remnants of a life pooling out around your ankles; the sound of a man's death rattle curling out through his lips in a final plea for mercy—all of those made up the kind of ecstasy that rushed through him when he took a life. But nothing had ever felt so good as ripping the lifeblood out of the soldier that had attacked his little bird.

 _Not his._

 _Stop it._

Sandor had left the body to decay in its pool of crimson. _Let the crows have their feast,_ he had thought bitterly to himself. When her attacker had uttered his last, Sansa had collapsed into his arms, only half-conscious, and cried. He'd had to carry her back to the campsite, and in the process, some of the dead man's blood had smeared all over his own jerkin, but Sandor couldn't have cared less. They would need knew clothes, though. He supposed they'd have to find another village to stop in, but the thought made him frown.

She was light as a feather in his arms. Light as a bird. _Little bird_. His stomach roiled at the thought of the position she'd been. The position that he'd _let_ her be entrapped in. If he hadn't fallen asleep…

When they'd finally arrived back at the campsite, the girl's howling woke the other Tully solider, Arrel. His eyes had widened as they took in the sight of her, soaked in blood and pale skin already starting to bruise purple-green, and for a moment, he'd opened his big mouth to speak, but Sandor had stopped him.

"Your fucking boy soldier tried to rape her," he'd rasped, but speaking the words out loud made their true meaning sink in deeper and his rage and wrath flared hotly in his chest. "So I ran my sword through him until his guts painted the ground around him."

The girl was curled in a lump, and the lifelessness quality in the way her thin limbs were splayed out around her reminded him of the rag dolls that Princess Myrcella had loved, once. She gave a kind of whimper as he said this.

Arrel looked like a ghost in the moonlight as Sandor approached, blade still drawn. His faced was drained of all semblance of colour and he was as pale as curdled goat's milk. "M-m-my lord," he'd stuttered, open-mouthed and aghast. "I-I knew not… I would never… please, Ser, you must know… he was a foolish lad, truly. He deserved his death, he did, always though himself so cunning, so clever…"

He'd thought that he ought to kill the man anyways, but then Arrel had pissed his pants, the astringent scent of urine rising up and filling Sandor's nostrils, and suddenly the rage went out of him and all he felt was pity and disgust and sadness. He'd sheathed his sword and sat himself next to the little bird and watched as the energy dripped out of her and, covered in the gore of the dead man who had tried to take her innocence, she had fallen asleep.

He watched her as she awoke, red-eyed, the next morning. Arrel had left in the night and Sandor hadn't tried to stop him. He had mistrusted the idea of travelling with the strange men in the first place but had allowed it because they were familiar with the quickest route to the Twins and also because he knew that the girl was starting to tire of relying on only his presence for the shred of human interaction she needed to get by. He had been a fool, and she was the one who had paid the price. Better they stay on their own from now on.

Sandor packed quickly and quietly, stomping out the ashy remains of the fire, and they mounted Stranger. He managed to get the full story out of her in bits as they rode.

"He knew who we were," the little bird said hoarsely at one point. Her night of grief had drained her, and she lay, exhausted and bleary-eyed, against his back without evening attempting to maintain her ladylike demeanor. "He said that you had dishonoured me and so no high lord would want me. He said that if he returned me to my brother, Robb would give him my hand as reward."

Sandor snorted. "He was a bloody fool, then," he said firmly. "You remain a maiden yet, and if even if you didn't, the Northern lords would yet fight over a beauty with your claim. The Young Wolf would never waste you on a foot soldier." He had hoped to make her smile with the compliment, but the little bird remained pale, drawn and still.

"That isn't what I meant," the girl said, and he was alarmed at how emotionless she sounded. "He knew who we were. He figured it out. We aren't being careful enough if he could find out who I was."

There was a flicker of silence between them. Then, "We're almost there, girl," Sandor said quietly. "In five days you'll be Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell again instead of Melessa the fisherman's daughter. We'll just need to last until then, little bird."

It proved harder than he thought.

* * *

On their second day after the incident, they were waylaid.

It was only four men, all of them bone-skinny, with collarbones and wrists pressing against hallowed, greyish flesh. Still, they were each armed and armoured in the familiar boiled leather common to foot soldiers. One even had a bow and a full quiver of arrows. Sandor had no need for the bow, as he'd taken along the dead boy's finely-carved one after he had killed him, but the arrows could be useful. They had a horse, too: a spotted palfrey that one of the men was leading along by a thick leather cord.

At first, Sandor had meant to ride them by and say nothing. Four men was still plenty, and though he knew he could kill them all, he knew that the little bird was still recovering from her endeavor and wouldn't like the sight. He would do what he could to avoid a fight, no matter how much he wanted those arrows.

But the foolish men called out to them before they could pass them quietly.

"Good day, ser," one of them spoke up. The path they were travelling on was narrow and they were unavoidable.

Sandor's jaw set. "I'm no bloody knight," he snapped.

Usually when he said this, the person he was speaking to would shrivel up in fear and apologize profusely. This time, the man seemed intrigued, and his ugly face perked up. "Oh?" he said wryly. "A man of your size, and in armour yet?"

Sandor grunted. He said nothing.

"Pretty girl you've got there," said a second man. This one had an usually large, stubby nose in contrast to a pair of cramped, beady little eyes that honed in on the little bird as he spoke. "Your sister, friend?"

"My wife," Sandor growled through clenched teeth. "Bugger off now, _friend._ "

"Easy, now," the man said. He seemed unperturbed by Sandor's anger, which annoyed him to no end. This man was less than half of his size. He had no reason to be so cocky, and yet, he peeled open his lips into a snake-like smile, revealing blackened teeth. "Pretty wife for such an ugly man. How did such an ugly man end up with such a pretty wife?"

Remembering at how the Tully men had balked at his story, Sandor kept it simple. "Won her," he told them. "And we'll be off now."

"Hold on," the man said, and his smile widened terribly. "Been on campaign for many moons, haven't we? Haven't known a proper woman in a long time. We'll pay you well for a taste of your pretty little wife. Pay you better than you'd know for a whole year, if it's true you ain't a soldier."

Against his chest, the little bird started to cry in earnest anguish, and the too-familiar sounds of her tired sobs sent a bolt of pain to his chest. He wanted to comfort her again and wondered if the circumstances had changed enough from the inn to allow it. He decided that they hadn't.

"Fuck off," he told the soldiers hotly, and started to rear Stranger forward past them, already knowing that a fight was growing inevitable. His hand itched toward the blade at his hip. His chest flared in annoyance. He hadn't _said_ that he wasn't a soldier, only that he wasn't a knight, and the man's misconception angered him further.

The buggering fool of soldier didn't even blink twice. "Now you'll be respecting your superiors, won't you, friend?" he said instead, eyeing the girl with the kind of hunger that Sandor was growing tired of seeing in men's eyes when they looked at her. "We'll give you one last chance to give her over and if you refuse, we'll kill you and take your girl all the same. No use in fighting, is there?"

Sandor's growl rumbled from deep within his throat, rough and almost animal. There was a moment of pregnant silence.

Then, so quickly that a blink of the eye would have missed it, he swung himself from the horse and brought his sword down into the man's chest. The soldier's eyes widened for a fraction of a second as he took in the blade in his belly, but in the next he was dead. Sandor was quick for a man of his size, he knew. It was an uncommon trait in a such a large fighter, but it was perhaps his uncommon combination of skills that had helped him amass the reputation he beheld throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

The other three soldiers unsheathed their weapons at the sight of their companion's corpse, but Sandor was too quick and strong and they were too frail-boned and weak. His blade flew through the air in a deadly arc and soon there were four bloodied corpses lying scattered on the ground and one snivelling, trembling girl on a horse. It was not a fair fight, but though it didn't give him the same satisfaction that had roared through him when he'd killed the girl's attacker, he still relished the feeling of steel through flesh, killer as he knew he was.

"There, girl," he said roughly, turning to her. Her dress was still so bloody. He'd need to do something about that. The only body of water clean or large enough to wash it in would have been where the boy's corpse lay now, so it would have to be a village. Her eyes were wet and wide, her nose rimmed with red, and she looked exhausted. "I promised you I wouldn't let anybody hurt you and now I've proved it to you five times over. You'll do well to stop your crying."

When they left the bodies to fester in the sun, they took the spotted palfrey, the quiver of arrows and two fresh skins of water. Sandor noticed, with relief, that the girl had stopped with her pitiful sniffles and was sitting a little straighter in the saddle.

* * *

Their next village was not nearly so big as the first, and much dirtier. Sicker, too, Sandor noticed uneasily as they trotted down the main road, which was really no road at all. Here, there was only a collection of small huts, and no inn at all.

Sandor managed to buy them shelter in the home of a wary-eyed soldier and his family. The man was cautious but starving and when he was offered their coin, he accepted without much thought. His cottage was at the fringe of the little village, and it was just as small and cramped as the rest of them, but there was a crackling fire in one corner and enough space for them to spread out their pallets over the hay sprinkled hazardously over the ragged stone floor. Sandor was uneasy so close to the flames and knew he wouldn't sleep well, but he appreciated the warmth that started to seep into his bones as he sat near them anyway.

He couldn't recall the farmer's name, though he knew he had said it. His wife was small and mousy-haired and they had a litter of sickly-looking children. Not just sickly- _looking_ , Sandor realized in alarm when one of them sneezed. They were all runny-nosed and crusty-eyed, wallowing in the sickness of the poor, even the dark-haired babe still at his mother's breast.

They stayed only the night. There was a warm, thick pottage shared with them, and it went hot and tasteless down Sandor's throat, but no words were spoken as they ate. After their meal, the girl set about unrolling their bedrolls while he went to tend to the horses. The girl had proven a mediocre rider at best, but her new palfrey was mild and did not put up much of a fight. He brushed down the both of them until he was satisfied with his work, and left them tied to the bony fence around the hut with a trough of water and a handful of oats each. The farmer had no horse of his own but two grey goats and several thin chickens scrambling around the yard. The oats would be no strain on their resources.

When he returned indoors, cheeks flushed from the chill, the girl was dressed in a clean, plain frock that must have belonged to the farmer's wife, and she had the woman's youngest child balanced on her lap. For a moment, mesmerized by the way her face was filled with warmth when she smiled, which she hadn't done in what felt like weeks, Sandor thought to let her enjoy the babe's presence, but then the child sneezed, mucus dribbling out of its nose, and he yelled at the woman to take care of her own children. The little bird protested fervidly but abandoned her campaign when the child began to suckle at his mother's breast a moment later.

At night, soothed by the faint flickering of the fire, casting shadows on the wall, Sandor was almost asleep when she spoke, her scratchy whisper just barely audible.

"I…" she started, and then stopped. Pause. "I'm tired of being attacked."

Sandor turned in his pallet to look at her. The girl was staring at him with an intensity that he wouldn't have matched to her mild, girlish looks. Her eyes were huge and glassy in the firelight. He didn't speak.

She pushed on. "Everyone always wants something from me," she said, and her voice was heartbreakingly childlike. "Everyone wants something and there's nothing I can do about it and I'm tired of it, Sandor. I cannot defend myself."

He looked at her. "That's what I'm here for, little bird," he said, but she merely shook her head.

"And what if you die? What am I to do?" Her tone was grim. "I want you to teach me to defend myself."

Sandor remembered his earlier reluctance to put a weapon in her hand and felt his desire to preserve her purity surge through his body again, but she was right, he realized sadly. If he died, she'd have nobody and nothing. A sword would be too heavy for her to even wield, but a dagger would serve nicely. She would never be a good warrior, but perhaps she would be able to defend herself.

He nodded mutely and turned his back on the faint outline of her body in the night.

When they rode the next morning, pockets lighter by a silver stag, the girl had grown sullen. The farmer's wife's dress was ill-fitting and ugly on her, but it was far better than the blood-soaked highborn girl's gown. Sandor had meant to purchase new clothes for himself, or at least a cleaner jerkin, as well, but the village had proved smaller than he had hoped and he supposed he would have to make do. Their journey had grown exhausting and he could tell that the girl was growing weary. _Hold on,_ he wanted to tell her. _Not much longer yet. We'll get there soon. Just hold on._

The little bird's sneezing started the next morning.


	11. Fever

Sansa

By evening, the fever had taken over her body.

At first it was just the sneezing, but then the sneezes mingled with heaving coughs that shook her entire body and after that her nose wouldn't stop running.

She wiped it on the sleeve of the farmer woman's gown. The dress was ill-fitting and its fabric was roughspun and scratchy, but it was clean, at least. Or it had been.

Soon her forehead grew sweaty and sticky-hot and when she reached a hand up to press against her cheek, she noticed that it was blotchy and trembling and tinted grey-green. Why was she trembling? But no, it wasn't her trembling, it was the world. The earth rumbled and shook and bounced, and when she turned to ask Sandor what was happening, her head throbbed, her body jerked, and the ground came surging up to greet her.

* * *

 _She was in the clearing by the river again._

 _It was just as beautiful as she remembered, just as lush. In fact, it was exactly as she remembered it. The river gurgled and bubbled around its boulders just like it had that night; the trees were still tall enough to cloud the night's sky with their feathery plumes. Beautiful, and yet, in another way, it was dark and sinister, Sansa thought, remembering what had happened and what was going to happen._

 _Stefon was on her again, his wet mouth suckling and biting at her neck, but Sansa felt no fear this time, only annoyance and discomfort. She knew how this story ended: Sandor would come and plunge his longsword into her attacker's chest and maybe this time, Sansa would remember to look down and watch with satisfaction as he choked and bled and died._

 _But Sandor didn't come this time._

 _As the minutes crawled, by, she realized. Sandor wasn't coming. Where was he? Nobody was going to help her. With a sudden rush of panic and fear, Sansa tried to scream, but worms and flies crawled in her throat. She choked and retched, tasting the familiar flavour of coppery blood and gagging on the taste of it as it rose up and bubbled and boiled in her mouth like a maegi's poisonous brew. Then, when she tried to suck in a much-needed breath, there was a slender hand curling over her mouth like a lock, and she couldn't breathe, she couldn't breathe… Stefon's hand coiled tighter, but then, no, Stefon hadn't worn such ornamental ruby-and-gold rings…_

 _And then it was not Stefon who was pinning her to the tree, but someone taller, milkier-skinned and dressed in rich robes of Lannister crimson-and-gold instead of beaten boiled leather armour. Sansa looked up sharply and when blue eyes had faded to laughing green and she was looking at Joffrey instead of Stefon, she tried to scream out again. The hand, cold and slimy, tightened, though, and she couldn't even take a breath, much less call for help… she couldn't breathe… Joffrey ripped at her bodice as Stefon had and he laughed terribly and she couldn't move, she couldn't breathe… and where was Sandor oh where was he where had he gone why wasn't he there oh why wasn't he coming why wasn't anyone coming help help please—_

 _Then she wasn't there anymore. When Sansa blinked, the clearing in the forest had faded away and in its place, she was temporarily blinded by the frozen quiet of a winter's dawn. The tips of spindly green pines were now blanketed with the powdery white carpet of winter; they seemed to sag under the weight of the crystallized snowfall. It was beautiful, but there was almost a hollow quality to its beauty; there was a stillness that felt empty. For a moment, there wasn't a sound._

 _A wolf howled. Then another. Then the howls melted together and intertwined and screamed out against the wind. Sansa howled, too. But she wasn't Sansa, she was a wolf. She was Lady. Oh, Lady. The pack of wolves formed from all around her, with wolves bounding out of bushes and from behind tree-trunks and through icy ponds. Her brothers and sister, all around her. Her body was lithe and quick as she ran with her pack. She wasn't the fastest or the strongest of them, but together, they moved as one. Her brothers and sisters. Her pack._

 _They sang out together in a sweet symphony of howls and cries. She felt her paws dip into ice and snow but her warm fur coat protected her from the terrain's chill. At one point there was an elk and when one of her brothers, the grey one, brought it down, Sansa lapped up the savoury taste of its blood and raw meat as savagely as the rest of her pack. The meat was good, but it was the company of her own pack that made it taste so good._ Sister, _they called to her,_ sweet sister. _But then their mingled voices grew bare and it was but one wolf who spoke._

 _This one was sleek-coated, his fur silvery-grey, with eyes of a queerly bright yellow that reminded her of two wide, wise lanterns. But she knew this wolf! This wolf was Summer, her littermate, and she felt him recognize her too. But no, no, not Summer… Bran?_

Bran? _She tried to say, but her words came out in a howl again and she felt hot tears of frustration springing up in her eyes. He was her brother, she knew, she could feel it, but when she reached for him she uncurled clawed paws instead of dainty maiden's hands that could have held him._ Brother! _She wailed, desperate for him to hear her._ Bran!

Sister, _he replied._ Sweet Sansa. Sweet sister of mine.

Bran! _She was calling,_ Bran! _He had been dead, she had thought. Her tears burned and trickled down her face, matting into her soft grey fur. Was he alive after all, in the form of Summer? But no, he was dead, this was a dream, this was a nightmare, how cruel of the Gods to torture her so…_

 _She squeezed her eyes shut again, wishing all of a sudden with a sharp longing that she wasn't a wolf. Her limbs ached and coiled around themselves and she craved her simple human form again as she felt the breadth of her wolf's. Bran, Bran, Bran. Bran, Summer, Arya, Robb, Rickon, Bran, Summer, Lady, Robb, Arya. Lady…_

 _When she opened her eyes for the third time it was to the smoky darkness of the crypts below Winterfell. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the thickness of the gloom. She hadn't liked the crypts when she had lived at Winterfell; as a girl, they had frightened her to no end. Once, her half-brother Jon had bathed himself in loose kitchen flour and pretended to be one of the ghosts of kings past and she had screamed so loudly and shrilly that her throat had itched for the rest of the day. She had been furious and humiliated then, but now, the memory brought a faint smile to her face. She was a human again, she noticed. Good._

 _Sansa peered around her. Out of all the graves in the crypts, Sansa's favourite had always been her beautiful Aunt Lyanna's. As a girl she had loved to take in the delicate details of the statue; the strong slope of her nose, or the way her collarbones curved through her dress, or the rose petals strewn in her hair. Lyanna's story had been a terrible one, a tragic one, and what she knew of it, Sansa had had to learn from gnarled old Maester Luwin, as her father had never liked to talk about his sister. Still—Sansa was fascinated by the tragedy of her aunt. She had been about Sansa's age when she died, hadn't she?_

 _Sansa stepped forwards slowly, the sounds of her footsteps reverberating throughout the hollowness of the hall. It was eerie. She examined each statue as she passed it, her eyes narrowing in hungrily on the names, almost illegible for drowned in their red rust. Names she recognized—Brandon, Rickard, Jon, Theon, Edrick, Torrhen, Dorren, Rodrik. She let her hand trace along the edges of their graves, feeling the jagged texture of old metal and marbled stone under it._

 _Something felt wrong, though, and when Sansa retraced her steps, she realized what it was: there was a sword missing from the statue of some king whose name was far too rusted to read. Yes—in the space where a longsword should have locked back any malicious spirit of Winterfell, there was dry, musty air. She paced down the hall, and by the time she had reached the high iron door, she had counted, with growing angst, three missing swords. Sansa felt uneasy at the realization, but she didn't have time to ponder on what it might have meant before she was distracted by a rustle of fur and the sound of paws trotting on the cool floor behind her._

Lady _, she thought, and followed the animal around a corner. But when she caught up to it, it turned in a swirl of tar-black fur that was most decidedly not Lady's. It wasn't a direwolf at all, she realized. Nor a regular wolf. It was a hound. The kind that was taken out on hunts._

 _Sansa made to move away from the beast slowly, but as it took her in, the dog didn't snarl or growl or attack her at all. It peered at her, luminescent eyes pensive and large. The hound was calm, for a moment, as it regarded her. Then the dog slipped around another corner and disappeared and Sansa awoke._

* * *

She was in a bed, but the feeling of its lumpy straw mattress was unfamiliar. She squirmed, broken fingernails catching in the coarse fabric of the bed's linen sheets. Her limbs ached, but the pain was almost pleasant. Her body was wet with perspiration but it didn't feel fresh, and sure enough, when she touched her face, its fever-heat had abated.

Sansa sat up. She was in a small bedroom, empty save for a wooden table and the bed she had been tucked into. Across from her, a wash of sunlight streamed in through a small slit of a window, and it was pleasantly warm. For a moment, she basked in it and let her eyes flutter shut. She wasn't tired – in fact, she felt more rejuvenated than she had in quite a while –, but it was pleasant to let the sun drip over her body and bake her.

Suddenly a door creaked open and a woman stalked in. Her dull brown hair was pinned messily behind her head, several loose strands stuck to her forehead, and she appeared to be around Sansa's mother's age. She had a certain matronly warmth to her, but still, she was unfamiliar, and Sansa recoiled in caution.

"There, there, girl," the woman said impatiently. "I'll not harm you, worry not. Come here, let me feel your forehead."

Her hand was not as smooth as Sansa's, but the calluses etched over her palm were not quite as rough as Sandor's were.

The woman looked pleased. "Fever's broken," she told Sansa. "Figure that great big man of yours'll be pleased. Been flitting around you like a fly, he has, and got right in my way when I was trying to heal you."

 _Sandor_ , Sansa thought happily, her stomach fluttering. "Where is he?" she blurted out.

The woman made a low, throaty sound that could have been a snort as easily as a laugh. "Just downstairs, girl," she said. "I'll fetch him for you, wait just a moment."

Sansa watched her go and hardly dared to breathe until the woman returned a moment later with Sandor in tow and left them, shutting the door behind her with a _click._

They stared at each other for a moment. Sandor's face was twisted into a funny kind of expression that Sansa couldn't quite place. Finally, he spoke.

"I've told them your name is Melessa," he said, his voice slightly huskier than usual. He coughed. "I'm your husband again, but we won't have the same story as last time. Didn't turn out as I wanted. I had hoped it might scare them off, but it was too much and you're far too pretty. They thought to save you from me, I've no doubt. The little man too, but that greasy blond cunt lost his control before they could."

"How long have I been asleep?" Sansa asked quickly. She didn't want to think about that anymore. Ever, really. Vaguely, she remembered Sandor's promise to teach her to defend herself. Her fever had robbed her of her strength, but she would regain it with time, she knew. Mayhaps he could teach her to wield a blade when she was healthier.

"Four days, little bird."

 _What?_ Her mouth wrenched open in disbelief. "Then—then we've missed my uncle's wedding."

"Aye." Sandor looked somber. "But it matters not. You'll stay here until you've recovered and then we'll meet them as they march down to King's Landing."

Sansa's face went blank. "I don't want to go back to King's Landing," she whispered hoarsely. Surely they hadn't travelled so far just to turn around and go back to where they'd come.

"I don't control your King-in-the-North brother's military decisions," he scoffed at her, brow furrowed. "And you'll do well to think no more on it. I didn't ask you what you wanted. Don't bother spending your energy moping around about it."

He stood and made to leave the room, but stalled before he had wrenched open the door. He wasn't wearing his armour, Sansa realized, and even in her mingled annoyance and fear she had to admire the definition of his muscle through the fabric of his chemise. Sandor paused for a moment. Then he turned, and when he looked at her, his eyes were sorrowful and stormy-grey. "You'll never go back to Joffrey, girl. Not while I'm alive. I'll slit your throat myself before I let him hurt you ever again."

She stared up at him and shivered. His gaze was intense, but she met it evenly. The statement was harsh and once the notion of him slitting her throat would have terrified her, but now Sansa seized it and wrapped it around herself like a cloak. Joffrey would never have her, not ever again.

"Thank you," she whispered, almost inaudibly, but from the set of his jaw, she knew that he'd heard.

It was only when he'd left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him, that Sansa realized that under the starched bed sheet, she was completely naked, and that the bed sheet had lain bunched at her waist since she'd woken and jerked it off of her.


	12. News

Sandor

They stayed with the farmer woman and her husband for another three nights before the fever had left the little bird's body completely.

She had insisted that she felt good as new as soon as the fever had broken, but she had still lost all of her strength and it took her a little bit to regain it. By the second day, though, she could walk normally, and on the third, when her skin had completely lost its greenish edge, Sandor decided that she was ready.

They packed up their horses quickly. Sandor had paid the woman and her husband well for their efforts, and they had been as welcoming as could be expected, but they were rightfully wary of the two and when he announced that they'd be leaving, he could sense the feeling of mingled tense uneasiness and suspicion lifting off of their shoulders. The woman, Alys, as she had given her name, prepared a hot stew with the meat of the wild boar Sandor had managed to kill the day before, and they ate it around the wooden table in the kitchen instead of taking their meals as far away as possible from one another. The mood, though not quite cheerful, was warmer and more pleasant than it had been for most of their stay.

The girl ate slowly and quietly. She had been quite silent for the duration of their stay, but Sandor hadn't bothered to try to provoke her: he knew exactly why she seemed to be avoiding him. It had taken him nearly all of his willpower to tear his eyes away from her exposed breasts when she had first woken from her fever-sleep. It was the third time he'd seen a glimpse of the pale, lightly freckled skin of her bosom, but it was the first time that the sight had caused such a stirring in his breeches. Not to say that the first two times she hadn't been beautiful – _oh Gods, she had been the most beautiful, the loveliest sight he had ever seen –_ , but both those times, he had been too distracted with the horror of the circumstances to properly enjoy the marble slope of her breasts, or the softness of her skin.

The first time had been when Joffrey had had her stripped bare and beaten in front of the court. It hadn't been so terribly long ago, Sandor knew, but she had seemed so much more a child then than she seemed now. Her skin, although as soft-looking as it was now, had been so pale he could see the tracings of blue veins underneath the surface of it, and it had been peppered with quickly-darkening bruises. Overall, the effect had been unpleasant and sent an uncomfortable surge of anger and pity into his gut. He had tried to stop her humiliation – an uncharacteristically courageous move for the loyal Lannister dog – but he hadn't tried hard enough. When Joffrey had dismissed his meager protests, Sandor hadn't done much other than avert his eyes and hate himself. Later, he'd given her his cloak and watched her cave into it, and all the while he had wanted to run the golden Lannister brat through with his sword. He hadn't, though. That was what made all the difference.

The next time he had seen them was when he had saved her from her attempted raper. Then, her nipples had been hard as little pink pebbles, and he'd noticed that they had grown rounder since the last time he'd seen them, but he was too distracted with killing the boy soldier that he had barely even looked at them. That was alright, though. It would have been taking advantage of her clean, innocent purity to defile her in such a way. She had known enough hungry eyes already. Besides, judging by the way the bodice of her gown hung rumpled around her waist, it had been ripped off quickly. He would be the first to admit that Sandor Clegane was not a good man, but he was no raper like his brother and he wouldn't allow himself to enjoy the sight of a girl about to be ruined. Especially not a girl like her.

In that bed, though, all sleepy-eyed and pink-cheeked with that auburn hair wild and messy around her shoulders…

There hadn't been much time for him to find his pleasure since that one uncomfortable night in the forest the first time he'd ever heard her say his name, but that morning, he'd had to excuse himself quickly and return to the barn, where he slept in the hay, and relieve himself. It was equally as unpleasant in front of the horses as it was in the cold of the wood, but this time he had a clearer image to picture as he took himself in his hand and pumped furiously.

He knew that she had only become aware of her nakedness after he had left and that she was humiliated by the fact that he'd seen her breasts – for tits felt too vulgar a word for such a buggering _pure_ beauty –, but that didn't stop him from picturing her as his willing, wanton wife again. In their wooden cottage at the edge of a village so small that none of their enemies could find them. Naked in the sheets of their shared bed, with his child swelling in her belly, and her hair long and red as blood against the alabaster curve of her shoulder—

No.

When he had daydreamed of this pretty picture before, he had always imagined that he would have stolen her away against her will and that, eventually, she would grow to love him overtime. Now, though, he knew that he would never take her without her permission. He would never have her unless she decided that she wanted him.

And she would never want him.

Best not to think of such maddening thoughts.

They would already have missed the wedding at the Twins, Sandor knew, and so as they continued, their pace was not rushed. They would need to catch the Stark banners as they marched on King's Landing, and that in itself required the party to return down the Kingsroad where they were now. All that Sandor had to do was steer them into the King-in-the-North's path and deliver him his pretty little sister when their paths crossed.

And then what?

The clear option, of course, would be to collect the girl's ransom, board a ship to Essos and never look back. He was sure that he could manage to find himself work as a sellsword and earn a decent enough living to fuck as many pretty red-haired whores as he wanted. Cheap imitations of the real thing, no doubt, but they would do all the same. They had, after all, done fine enough in King's Landing.

But whenever Sandor thought about leaving, he no longer felt the tantalising taste of escape beckoning to him; there was no longer the aching urge to leave Westeros without a glance back over his shoulder and never return, not ever.

 _She_ was in Westeros.

 _Don't fucking think like that, dog, you buggering hound, you bloody dog! Don't think like that don't fucking think like that don't fucking think like that._

But he couldn't help it. Before, she had been so far out of reach that his fantasies had never strayed further than fucking her bloody and taking a lock of her pretty copper hair with him to remember her by. Not that he would ever be able to forget, but still. She had always been too distant to touch. Now, though… now she was so close. She called him _Sandor_ instead of Hound and she had called out for him in her fever-sleep and she had clung tightly to him when she had heard of her brothers' deaths. She'd screamed for _him_ when she was being attacked, and when they had ridden together, her arms were tight around his waist. She didn't fear to look upon his scars anymore, he had noticed. When she was talking to him, she would fix her big, ocean blue eyes on him without fear or hesitation.

Sandor was positive that the girl's older brother, green boy as he was, would be wise enough to deny him to her service, but perhaps he'd allow him to remain among his bannermen. Yes, he could imagine it. Catching furtive glances of her – garbed in proper highborn dresses, her long hair braided in the Northern way instead of tangled down her back – at feasts and banquets where he would sit at the back of the hall and drink her up as thirstily as he would wine. She would taste as sweet and fine as any Arbor Gold. When the Young Wolf attacked King's Landing he could ride into battle with the girl's name as a battle-cry on his lips.

 _Sansa._

But no. That would mean watching her walk down the aisle to be married off to some prick of a lordling with skinny arms who didn't deserve her. Watching as dirty fingers and callused hands that weren't _his_ tore off her clothing and touched and caressed at her body as they carried her off to a marriage bed she didn't want. Leaving her with her new husband when the Young Wolf rode away from his sister, or, worse yet, staying and watching her grow round with another man's child.

No. He couldn't do that. But he couldn't leave her either, he realized hollowly. He was left, then, with an overwhelming feeling of confusion and loneliness pressing against his chest. It was an unfamiliar and wholly unpleasant sensation.

They rode with less urgency than they had before, stopping at their leisure to water the horses whenever they came across jagged little streams snaking through the loam beneath them. Their pace was comfortable, but he could feel the little bird's impatience through the kind of excited, jittering vitality she secreted. Sandor thought that if he stayed particularly silent, he could perhaps almost hear the faint buzzing of the blood fluttering in her veins.

Just as he'd promised that night on the floor of the famer's hut, Sandor began training her as soon as all traces of the fever had left her body.

The sickness had left her even thinner and bonier than before, but she rode well enough and when they dismounted, she was no longer so weak that she collapsed. When they made camp, they would go about the increasingly familiar routine of unpacking: collecting the kindling to tinder the fire (her job), unrolling the pallets neatly next to the fire (hers, and he had noticed lately that their bedrolls inched closer and closer each night. At first, the realization had filled him with a shameful kind of warmth, but then he thought about what would happen when he returned her to her family and the warmth turned to disquiet.), and stalking off into the woods to hunt the evening's meal (his, of course).

But there was something new, now, to their practiced sequence of motions: when Sandor had returned with his kill of the night – tonight, it was a skinny, brown-coated forest cat of some sort – and Sansa had got it sizzling on a pick over the fire, he would crawl over towards her and take out his sharp-tipped dagger and teach her.

As was to be expected of a maiden of her birth, she was no good.

The dagger, though hardly even the size of her forearm, was heavy and her hands shook when she bore it at first. The sight of her hands, all smooth and callus-free and trembling, recalled the memory of his desire to keep her innocence, but he forced down the notion. She could learn to defend herself and keep her purity all the same, Sandor decided. Their lessons consisted of him guiding her through a rather simple range of motions and her trying them out, steering the blade through the air around her. He taught her the best places to stab an attacker, and he showed her where the heart was, reminding her of the man in the bush whose life he'd ended. He remembered the way her head had whipped away so as to avoid the sight of it and thought, with a grim sense of irony, of how much had changed since then.

"Best to keep your blade hidden until whoever's coming for you gets close enough," Sandor said on the third night. "You aren't a strong one, you'll not be winning any battles of force. It'll do you better to surprise them and get them good before they have a chance to defend themselves."

The little bird nodded seriously, her pretty face illuminated by the orange-red glow of the fire-light. She was still beautiful, but her face had started to grow gaunt and haggard, with bruised purple half-moons under her eyes. He remembered the radiance of her skin as it had been in Winterfell and wished more than ever that their journey would hurry up and end.

After that, though, he gave her the dagger. She fashioned a leather strip he tore from his already-ripped jerkin into a band around her arm and kept it fastened there, under the fabric of her right sleeve, so she could draw it out quickly without drawing much suspicion.

It was on the fifth day since they'd left the farmer woman's house that Sandor realized that Robb Stark's forces weren't coming.

They had left King's Landing nearly two moons ago, though it felt much longer. Their journey had been slow and perilous, and though he knew that the King-in-the-North had over twenty thousand men and their march would be bounds slower than his and Sansa's, there was no way that they wouldn't have crossed paths already. Suspicion began to gnaw at Sandor's insides, and it was with a dark, knowing kind of trepidation that he started to draw his own conclusions as to just what the Stark army's absence meant.

Their next inn stay was more for information than for shelter, though he didn't tell Sansa that. He sent her up to her room with a bath to occupy her while he went down to the tavern, his heart starting to thump so loudly in his chest that he was sure that anyone who listened could hear it.

This tavern was dingier and darker than their last one, but it mattered not: it was crowded all the same. Sandor chose a seat at the fullest table and ordered himself a flagon of beer that he downed in a deep, hearty chug despite his nervousness. He set the flagon down. He swallowed. He listened.

Confirmation didn't come immediately, but it came all the same.

"Heard about what happened up at the Twins?" one man asked conversationally after a while.

Some nodded, but Sandor shook his head no and the man took it as confirmation enough to continue. "Horrible deal, it were," he said, his voice taking on a whimsical, storytelling depth. "Walder Frey married 'is daughter off to the Tully lord and when they was off in their marriage bed, he broke the Guest Right and slaughtered all the Starks, King-in-the-North included! Heard it were a terrible bloody affair. Slaughtered the Young's Wolf mother, too, and 'is direwolf and all 'is troops who weren't killed ran scattered. That's another king down, it is."

"With the Seven's mercy, his death'll bring closer the end of the war," said another man, and several others murmured their tired assent.

"I heard that the Young Wolf rode into battle on that direwolf," said a third man, though, when Sandor looked closer, he saw that he was closer to a boy, pimpled and gangly as he was.

Somebody scoffed. "Those great beasts have no place south of the wall anyway," he said, drawing himself up to his full height, and it was then that Sandor realized: the speaker's garb was tattered and discoloured, but he wore armour and his colours were undeniable the blue and grey that marked a Frey man. "Lord Frey only did what he done because the _Young Wolf_ broke his word and wed a Westerling bitch instead of one of his daughters. I was there, I would know. They even cut off the direwolf's head and sewn it onto the Young Wolf's body. I seen it. It's what he deserved, breaking his word and all."

There was another smattering of uncomfortable murmurs, most common men too afraid to challenge a soldier's proclamation, but their whispers were drowned out by a huge, quavering gasp that ripped out from behind him. Heads turned.

Sandor turned too, already knowing who it was, and watched as the last living Stark turned as white as marble. She swooned, but he was already off his feet, and he caught her before she hit the ground.


	13. Kiss

Sansa

Sansa didn't cry at first.

She felt the same kind of throbbing anguish that had swept through her when she'd heard about her brothers' deaths, but this time there was a hollow quality to her grief. It was familiar.

She had felt wonderful after her bath. Her body wasn't quite as caked with dirt as it had been the first night they had stayed in an inn, but it was still far from clean, and Sansa had steeped in the bathtub for quite some time, singing to herself and detangling her wet hair. When she felt sufficiently clean, she had washed her grey dress, the one still crusted with dried blood. The water black with blood and dirt, Sansa had set the gown out across the bed to dry and garbed herself in the famer woman's gown. It hung loosely across the bony edges of her once-soft figure, but when she tied its belt tighter around her body, she could admire the steep curve of her waist. Her breasts had grown larger, too, she'd noticed. Sansa had left her hair to dry in smooth auburn curls down her back and left the room for the tavern feeling satisfied, hungry and even pretty, for the first time in a great deal of time.

Sandor was seated with his back to her, but she could tell it was him from his size alone. Once again, she found herself admiring the press of his muscled shoulders against the material of his jerkin. _His face might be ugly_ , she thought, rather boldly in her opinion, _but I am certain that under his garb his body is beautiful._

He didn't notice her at first. He was distracted by a man who was talking loudly, so she turned her attention to what the man was saying.

When she heard, Sansa didn't cry.

She had already all spent her tears on her baby brothers. She had none left to give.

The world tilted and swayed around her, and her eyes went blurry, but then before she could fall she was flying. She didn't know how long she flew, but her body was weightless in the air until something shifted and she was set down onto the straw bed in her room with a gentle kind of delicateness, as if she was made of pure porcelain instead of flesh and blood and bone. How had she gotten to her room? She didn't know.

Through bleary eyes, Sansa blinked up. Sandor was kneeling before her at the foot of the bed. His expression was a far gentler one than she'd ever seen from him.

"Little bird," he began, his voice a rasp of a whisper. "I'm sorry."

She opened her mouth, and to her mingled surprise and horror, a gurgling kind of laugh bubbled out. For a moment she was silent, but then she was laughing furiously, her mirth pouring out of her with a kind of frantic urgency that was uncontrollable. _I have absolutely nobody left,_ Sansa thought to herself, but for some reason, the thought made her laugh even harder. She stuffed a hand over her mouth and found that she was shaking as furiously as she had when she had been with fever.

When she looked back up at Sandor, she could see that he was concerned with her reaction. She studied him. _Truly_ , Sansa thought, _his good side is not half so ugly as men describe him to be._ She recalled a bone-cold night curled into a pallet by the fire, on perhaps their second or third day of travel, when she examined him in a similar fashion and thought the same. His features were coarse but strong, and there was a pleasant quality to the sturdiness of his bone structure. His eyes were sharp and very grey, his hair a burnt black. She recalled the way he'd kept himself clean-shaven back in King's Landing, but now there was a faint stubble along the edges of his jaw. She found that she rather liked the way it suited him.

 _No,_ Sansa amended. _I don't have nobody. I have him._

And she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

* * *

His breath was hot and tasted of mead. At first when their lips met, he jerked away violently, cruel curving mouth parted, brow pulled so high on his forehead that Sansa thought it might fly right off.

"Girl," he said, "The _fuck_ do you think you're doing?"

Sandor's tone was edged with a kind of uncharacteristic breathiness but for the most part had rescinded back into the cold ragged rasp she had attributed to him in King's Landing. Over the course of their two moons of travel together, his voice had lost most of its chill as he grew more comfortable with her presence, but the rasp remained still.

He was furious and bewildered, she knew, but Sansa ignored him and covered his lips with hers again, fiercely this time. She was not an experienced kisser at all, and her mouth was clumsy against his, but now she pressed her body tightly against his and wrapped her arms around his neck with a passion that came to her all at once, and eventually he softened against her.

"You don't know what you're doing," he warned her, voice low in his throat, but his arms had already snaked around her waist. "You're playing a dangerous game, girl, teasing a starving dog like this."

"Not a dog," she whispered, and pulled him towards her again.

This time he took control of their embrace, and now that he wasn't resisting, his kisses were hot and wet against her mouth. Sandor Clegane, it seemed, grisly as he was, knew how to kiss. He pushed her back onto the bed with a force that took Sansa aback and then the weight of his body was pressing into hers and she couldn't move. His hands, calloused and strong, closed over her wrists and the movement made her gasp. Sandor took advantage of her parted lips and pressed his tongue between them. Something about the ferocity of his economy of motion sent a spiral of heat that was not entirely unfamiliar down between her legs.

" _Sansa_ ," Sandor gasped against her mouth.

Sansa. He never called her that. It was always _girl_ or _little bird_. She hated girl and had grown fond of little bird as soon as it had begun to lose its traces of mocking, but this was different.

Sansa. Sansa Stark. Sansa Stark of Winterfell.

Sansa, sister to Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon and even Jon. Sansa, daughter of Catelyn Tully and Eddard Stark. But they were all gone now, weren't they? Bran and Rickon slaughtered, Arya most likely dead in a ditch somewhere. Her father beheaded – she still remembered the emptiness of his dead eyes when Joffrey had made her look at his head. Jon freezing further up North than she'd ever been, not likely to ever return. And now. And now her older brother Robb and her mother murdered at a wedding, on what was supposed to be an occasion of joy. She was the only Stark left.

Then Sansa started to cry, the tears salty and stinging against her cheeks. Her sobs tore out of her, and at once, Sandor jerked himself off of her in alarm. _It's not because of you_ , Sansa wanted to tell him, but she had lost her voice again. At the sudden lack of physical contact, she cried even harder, and he looked at her with large, sorrowful grey eyes, reeking of guilt.

"I— _fuck_ —should never have— _fuck, fuck, fuck_ —little bird—," he stammered for a moment. Then he thought the better of it and hurried out of the room abruptly.

 _Don't go,_ Sansa thought, and then, _call me Sansa._

But she didn't say anything. Truthfully, all thoughts of her previous pleasure were fading quickly as the realization sunk in. _The only Stark left._ She buried herself into the scratchy material of the pillow and let herself cry freely, feeling small and young and stupid and alone. That meant that Winterfell was hers, she thought distantly. But no, that wasn't right. That couldn't be right. Winterfell was _Robb's_. Wasn't it?

Her thoughts swirled messily until her head hurt. She wasn't sure where Sandor had gone, but she couldn't summon the energy to seek him out and apologize. How cruel she had been to tempt him like that, when all she had really wanted to do was block out her fear and pain and sadness. Truly, that was all she had wanted, right?

She pressed her damp cheek further into the pillow, still crying softly. She felt stupid and helpless, but she couldn't stop her tears. _Tomorrow,_ Sansa told herself. _Tomorrow I will make this right. Tonight is for my family._

Eventually, the wetness on her face dried and she drifted into a miserable, uneasy sleep.

* * *

 _Wolves again. She leaned into the feeling of running with her pack, just as she had the first time. They ran swiftly, with the strength of their numbers coursing through them. They had moved further south, though, she realized—although the ground was still dusted with snow, it had started to thaw out, and the thick chill that hung in the air grew thinner as they traveled._ Sister, _her pack called to her._ Sister! _they howled._

 _The great grey wolf was gone, she noted, and the realization filled her with a knowing kind of sadness._ Grey Wind _, she thought._ Robb. _Her heart ached for her fallen brother._

 _This time, she did not shy away from hunting with her pack. Last time, she'd eaten along with the rest of the wolves but allowed her stronger brothers and sisters to down their prey, but this time, she attacked along with them._ I am a wolf, _she reminded herself sternly. When the elk she was chasing lost its footing, she sunk her canines into the flesh of its furry neck and felt hot, sweet blood trickle down her snout. She lapped it up: it tasted better than anything she'd ever had. The meat was tough but good, and it was fresh in a way that the salted, dried meats she was used to in her human form had never been._

 _Eventually, the discomfort of her wolven form spun through her veins, crystallizing painfully beneath the layers of her skin and burning its way down to the bone. Last time, her pain had grown swiftly and immediately and she'd begged to be human again, but with her human form came the knowledge that she was the last Stark left and this time the knowledge was too much for her to bear. As a wolf, at least, she had her pack. The wolf-girl closed her eyes and ran harder, feeling, with comfort, the warmth of her wolves around her._

 _She did not know how long the pack travelled—it could have been hours or days. The pain grew sweeter the further she ran. She did not know why they stopped, but eventually they did, and she peered around her._

 _They were standing on a small snow-covered incline, and before them stood, in its all its former glory, the sturdy structure of a castle. It was still huge and made of sturdy greyed stone, but now it was ruined. Fire had eaten away at its glass gardens and brought down many of its sky-reaching towers. What remained was shambling: rooves caved in, stone blocks littering the winter earth, battlements and parapets cracked and falling inwards. Even the portcullis had been destroyed, though it was clear that that didn't matter: nobody would be going near the wreckage anyways, and there was no need to protect it._

 _Winterfell, she realized._

 _The human part of her remembered how tall and sturdy it had been in her youth. How it was so strong that one would never doubt its safety. She'd been safe there, in Winterfell. But now it had fallen, and a sharp piercing pain in her chest reminded her that it was Theon Greyjoy who had felled it._

 _The wolf part, though, simply tilted its head to the sky and howled._

She awoke with a replenished urge to apologize to Sandor.

In the immediate aftermath of the news at the tavern, her grief had clouded her sensibilities and she had acted rashly, but a part of her still wondered why her act of rashness had been to kiss him at all. It was true that her subconscious had remarked on the slope of his shoulders, or the set of his jawline before, and that something about the strength of his touch sent something hot and unfamiliar to the pit of her tummy, but she didn't know what that meant. All she knew was that when he had responded with such urgent desire, the feeling had spread lower.

Sansa found him in the stables.

He was tending to Stranger, and she had to admit that fearsome as he was, when he was properly cleaned and brushed, the warhorse was a handsome creature. When he heard the tentative rustle of her careful footsteps in the hay, she could see him tense visually. He straightened, turned, and looked at her with an expression of guilt unadulterated that tugged at her chest.

"I'm sorry," she said immediately, but her voice came out cracked and small. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "I—I ought not to have… I was distressed upon hearing of my family's…" _Murder destruction slaughter massacre extermination. "_ But it was not kind or ladylike of me to behave in the way that I did and… and I must beg your pardon."

Sansa knew that her apology was fumbling and awkward and that she had retreated back into the familiar confines of her ladylike manners, but she couldn't think of much else to say. _Besides, courtesy is a lady's armour._

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. "Foolish of me to think that a pretty little bird could truly want a scarred old dog," he muttered bitterly, then looked at her. "I'm sorry for making you cry."

Sansa's eyes widened. "I cried for my mother and my brother," she said insistantly. "My tears were of no fault of yours." Sandor looked at her pointedly but said nothing. "Truly," she insisted, but her words were growing clumsier and more frantic, and she could hardly help it when she blurted, "I liked it when you kissed me."

Sandor scoffed, eyes sparking. "Girl— "

"I liked it when you called me _Sansa_ , too."

Something shifted and set in his gaze, but she couldn't tell what it meant. "Alright then, Sansa," he said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, and left it at that. She could tell that she had not convinced him, but she let the conversation end at that. Sansa shuffled gracelessly in the hay. Stranger whinnied. The silence was palpable.

She _had_ liked it when he kissed her. She had liked the feeling of his rough corded muscle pressed against the softness of her own skin. She had liked the way half of his mouth was smooth and half hard and scarred. She had liked the strength of his grip when he held her wrists. She had liked the spreading heat between her thighs…

Then she felt stupid and selfish. Her mother and brother had _died_ , and here she was thinking about the way it felt to be ravaged by the _Hound_. She was a stupid, stupid, selfish little girl. And now the only person she had thought that he had hurt her when she had foolishly projected her desires on him. The thought made her feel alone and sad and small. Truly, he was the only one left, and she had gone and ruined it all for a moment of heated passion.

"What did you tell the men in the tavern when I fainted?" Sansa asked later, when they were breaking their fast in the tavern. She didn't really care to know, but Sandor hadn't spoken a word since they had left the stable and she was itching for conversation. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, I've ruined everything…_

He swallowed and muttered, "Told 'em you were ill," very quickly and very quietly.

She bit her lip and tried to blink back her tears. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ She was truly alone now. And where would she go? She had nobody left.

"What are we to do now?" Sansa asked, choking down the lump that was forming in her throat. "All of my family are dead." The last word was but a strangled whisper.

There was a pause as he thought. "I suppose there's your aunt in the Eyrie, but if the Imp's account is correct, she's gone mad up in her high castle. She didn't rally her banners to fight for your elder brother either, so there'll be no be no depending on her sense of family loyalty." Here his face twisted into an awful kind of sneer. It made the scarred side of his face pull and ripple. "Aye, I'll not be bringing you there. The safest place for you would be across the Narrow Sea in Essos, I s'pose."

Sansa's throat dropped and her tummy sank. "Essos."

He nodded grimly and she could see him retreating back into his stony seclusion quickly, so she spoke.

"I—but—I—Esso is so far away," she stuttered. "I—if my brothers are dead then I'm the heir to Winterfell. I need to go home. You said you would take me home." She knew that she sounded frantic, but she couldn't help herself. _Essos._ Essos felt as if it were a thousand leagues away.

Sandor's sneer deepened from its sneer into a mocking kind of scowl. "Home? Where is your _home_ , girl? Winterfell a ruin. The North is scattered. Any Northern lord who wasn't slaughtered at the Red Wedding has scattered back to his holdfast and will not be wont to go out and fight again."

"But I—my banners… Winterfell is my birthright now! I can't abandon it. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell." She was rambling now, grasping at straws.

"And how exactly do you expect to _win_ back Winterfell, _girl_?" He was practically shouting now, and Sansa was thankful that the tavern was deserted. "To take back a holdfast you need an army. You have no army. You have nobody to win you back your home."

"I have you!"

He laughed bitterly. "Aye, you have me. A scarred old dog who deserted his master to go sniff up a pretty highborn maiden. Haven't you heard that the Hound's gone craven? Besides, I'm one sword. You'll not be winning back your fancy Northern castle with one sword."

Sullenness seeped into her expression. She could feel her bottom lip jutting out and knew that she was pouting in a manner that was decidedly unladylike but she couldn't find it in herself to care. "You promised to take me home." She sounded like a petulant child, she knew.

"I promised to keep you safe," Sandor corrected shortly. "Westeros isn't safe anymore."

She felt her lower lip tremble. Sansa didn't know why she was so opposed to the idea of leaving Westeros, her country of war and death and destruction, but she was and that was that. _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,_ she told herself, _and I am the last living Stark._

At her expression, Sandor seemed to soften, if only a bit. "Where would you have us go, if not Essos? And don't you say Winterfell."

Sansa sniffled. "We could find a village somewhere. Far enough north not to be affected by the southron wars but not so far as to freeze from the cold. We could have a little house there and then when winter is over I can take back the north and keep the Stark bloodline in the North where it belongs."

Sandor smiled sardonically, as if he was remembering a joke. Then his expression shifted "I don't give a rat's arse about the fucking Stark bloodline," he said harshly, his voice as rough and blunt as a blade. "I care about you and you aren't safe here. Besides, the winter will last for years and your precious Northern lords will have long forgotten about you by then. And you're more a fool than I thought if you think the North won't be affected by this war."

Sansa cried herself to sleep that night, but it made no difference: they rode for White Harbour the next day.


	14. Harbor

Sandor

When he had first heard of what had become of the little bird's family, part of him had been sad for her. Truly, it had been.

He was familiar with the taste of loss; he knew how much it burned going down. It was not hard for him to admit that he had grown to care for her more deeply than he had in King's Landing, either. Within the confines of the red-stone halls, she had been something innocent and sweet and pure that he'd wanted nothing more than to corrupt. As Joff's betrothed, he had found her incessant chirping annoying but had enjoyed the way she tried to cling to her frilled highborn manners when he mocked her and paraded his burns around her. He was a dog—he could smell her fear, could sense it, and he lapped it up. Now, though, her purity was something that he wanted to protect. He had lost her fear by showing her too much gentleness, but for some reason the thought stirred something pleasant instead of angry. Even her chattering and chirping had grown comfortable, and on the rare occasions when she was silent he could sense the blackness of her mood. They had travelled together for two moons now and the little bird had grown familiar, so it was not foreign to Sandor that he wanted to spare her from the pain of losing her mother and her brother.

That was only a little part of him, though.

It filled him with a sickening kind of guilt to think it, but most of him had flooded with giddy relief when he'd heard of the Red Wedding, as the smallfolk had taken to calling it. He had already harboured his doubts about a green boy of only five-and-ten's capability as King-in-the-North. He was not so stupid, though, as to think that the Stark boy wouldn't be smart enough to marry his pretty little sister off to strengthen his army. That was what troubled him so. And the worst part was that he was sure that the girl would do her duty without complaint, though he knew she'd be loath to enter into another betrothal after the disaster that had been Joffrey. Like the well-trained bird she was, she would be pretty and prim and wed whatever lordling she was made to and give him strong sons and say nothing of it. Songs would be written about her beauty on her wedding day, he was sure, but eventually her tale would shrivel up and there would be nothing more of it but the whispers of fat blacksmith's wives as they sung their children to sleep.

Yes, it was true that Sansa Stark's joy of reuniting with her elder brother would wither away and die. And now he was dead, it seemed. Sandor could hate himself for rejoicing on it all he wanted, but the truth was that he was pleased that he wouldn't have to watch his pretty little bird suffer a life of a wife's miserable duty. Even more, he was pleased that _he_ was all she had left. That thought was even worse, though. That made him a selfish, greedy hound, lusting after a girl without a family.

So Sansa Stark was the last Stark left, and he was the one charged with taking care of her. That left him with a rather insurmountable task. The Boltons held the North, he'd heard, and though he knew that his little bird could, perhaps, win over some of her Northern lords with her pretty words, they would not be strong enough to win her back her home. The North was not safe enough for the likes of her. He had considered Dorne, too, but they had already travelled so far north. Besides, he was as familiar with the expression as anyone: Northern roses wilted when they went south.

Then there was her bastard half-brother, Jon Snow, and her father's brother Benjen Stark, both at the wall. Sandor remembered the bastard, dark and brooding, from Winterfell, but he knew nothing of his character. Perhaps the boy had been forced to take the black because he was a sadistic little cunt like Joffrey. Perhaps he had always lusted after his half-sister and would take any opportunity to rape her. Even if he was as true and honourable (and fucking stupid) as his father, Sandor misliked the notion of surrounding his little bird by rapers and thieves hungry for even an ugly whore. He was one man. He would gladly take the black for her, but women did not belong at the wall. Especially not beautiful highborn women who were too trusting for their own good.

She could cry about it all she liked, but her pretty tears wouldn't change his mind: Westeros was not safe for her anymore. He had been slightly amused by her bold notions of taking back her birthright, and perhaps… perhaps someday he would do it for her. She would have to love him then, wouldn't she?

 _Stop that._

Because the traitorous brought him to the other matter at hand. In her rash grief, the little bird had _kissed_ him. And he had kissed her back.

As much as he might want to, Sandor knew that he couldn't truly blame her for what she had done. She was young and unexperienced and had probably grown sick to death of weeping away her sorrow. She hadn't been thinking and she didn't even know what she was doing anyways.

But he knew.

Perhaps there had never been women clawing each other's eyes out to get to him, but some women had decided they liked the shape of his body and sought him out over the years. Elsewise he had paid for it. He was no green boy and although in recent years his conquests had been more about closing his eyes and trying to pretend whatever redhead he was fucking was a very specific redhead and less about affection, he knew how to kiss. And so when he finally, _finally_ found that the lips pressed to his own were truly Sansa Stark's, he had _tried_ to resist – oh really, he had tried so very hard –, but that hadn't lasted long.

When his passion overcame him, he had been ferocious in his affections, he knew. Some of the whores and kitchen maids (though really, there wasn't much difference) he'd bedded enjoyed how strong and large he was, if their squealing moans when he was rough meant anything. Sandor cringed to remember the way he had held her wrists and shoved his tongue down her throat. She had felt _so_ good, so fresh and untainted and willing…

But that wasn't right. Hadn't he said that he wanted to preserve her purity? Kissing her on her bed with his cock pressing hard against her leg could hardly be considered an act of preservation. It was not for him to despoil her.

He had been so rough with her too, when he was overcome. He hadn't even thought about the implications of his severity. Under her dress, her milky-white skin was still peppered with purple-green bruises left by members of the Kingsguard. Now that he thought about it, Sandor was sure that she would have preferred him to be gentle. Perhaps if he had been gentle with her, she wouldn't have cried.

Oh, it had pained him so to see the tears slip down her face and to know that it was his fault. He made himself a silent promise that he would never make her cry again, and of course he hadn't believed her when she insisted her tears weren't for him. Still so ladylike, even when she had nothing left. There was another part of him, though, a part buried deep inside that was stirred by the sight of her fear and pain. It was an ugly, ugly thing and he fought at it in disgust when it bubbled to the surface, but something deep and dark and awful had _liked_ her reaction to his control…

None of that mattered now, though.

He had frightened her enough away with his cruel words. He hoped that he had been harsh enough to prevent her from reaching for him again, for he mistrusted his ability to resist her, especially when she'd started to look so grown. Perhaps it was that the farmer woman's frock was too small, but the little bird's breasts had started to swell against the thin fabric of her dress. Sandor knew that it was normal for girls of her age to start dealing with their feelings of lust (or at least, it was what he had heard—he hadn't any experience at all in this field, obviously) and he was the only man around her. She wasn't truly choosing him, but merely making the most out of what she had, and if she tried it again, he would be powerless to stop her.

In the days after their kiss, as they made their way towards White Harbor, their carefully-developed comfort seemed to shatter. Sansa rarely spoke, and when she did her tones were clipped, polite and cold as ice. She would sleep as far away from him as possible and he would watch her shiver under the thin, roughspun material of her blanket and do nothing, craven as he was.

It was jarring, this newfound sense of icy, awkward tension between them, and while he suspected it had more to do with the fact that he was dragging her to Essos, he told himself that it was because he had hurt her and now she was afraid of him.

Sansa didn't ask him to help her continue her training, but she did not abandon the pursuit. Oft-times, he would return from a hunt, whatever skinny animal he had managed to ensnare tugged over his shoulder, to find her gliding her dagger through the air in motions that were far too delicate to be frightening. She would stow it when she saw him, but it pleased him more than he would have liked to admit to see that she was keeping up with her practices.

Finally, _finally_ , after thirteen long, hard days of harsh riding and harsher silence, White Harbor loomed before them. When she saw it, the little bird started sniffling quietly on her horse, and as much as he might have liked to say something gentle to her to calm her, he was growing weary of her childish moping.

"Stop your snivelling," he snapped at her instead, and felt the wall she had mounted between them harden further.

 _Good_ , Sandor told himself rather bitterly. _It's better this way._

Of great cities, Sandor had only ever known Casterly Rock and King's Landing, and it was true that White Harbor was smaller than the latter, but it was clear as day that it was ten times cleaner. It consisted of neatly-cobbled streets and tall, proud buildings of whitewashed stone that stretched down each road as far as the eye could see.

It was still midday when they rode through the gates and into the city and it was bustling with life. A crowded, crudely-set-up marketplace extended down throughout the streets, alight with sounds of haggling and yelling and bartering. As the horses trotted closer, the marketplace scents wafted up to greet them: the pleasant ones of roasting salted cod, greased pan-bread and simmering sweetcrab stew; and the ugly ones of human sweat, boiling leather and shit. Makeshift wooden stands and uncovered wagons lined the sides of the streets and the spaces between them were stuffed with merchants and customers alike. There were animals, too: long-haired horses and goats and sheep being towed around on leather leads; mangy stray cats and dogs chasing after fallen scraps of meat; and under that, mice and vermin skittering between ankles. The sight reminded Sandor of the marketplace in Flea Bottom, _though_ , he thought, _this one is not half so shit-coated._

Almost reluctantly, Sansa seemed to perk up at the sight. Sandor supposed it had been a great deal of time since she'd seen so many people in one place, and people there were. Surely she was growing sick of having only his ugly face to stare at all day. The prospect of human company delighted her, he could tell, sending a pretty flush of pinkish-red to the white of her cheeks.

It was something of a challenge to navigate the horses throughout the crowd of people. Stranger was enormous compared to the other skinny mares traipsing meekly around them, though the little bird's palfrey paled in comparison, and Sandor garnered many glares as he needled the warhorse forwards.

They had been walking down what appeared to be the main road for nearly a quarter of an hour when the docks appeared before them. The water stretched out into the horizon until it mingled with the cream-yellow of the horizon, its cold grey-blue waves rippling gently with the wind. Even better were the ships. Altogether, there were almost as many ships as in Stannis Baratheon's burning fleet at Blackwater, but these were no war galleys. Instead, there were dozens of different kinds of ships: some small and carved of gnarled brown northern wood, others tall and proud and strung up with the bright silken banners of far-away eastern countries, promising hulls filled with ripening fruits and spices and bolts of lace and silk and leather. Tradeships, though some would indubitably have to belong to pirates and thieves as well. He'd do well to steer clear of those.

There were several inns, but Sandor chose a large, well-kept one that extended down down half of a stone-cobbled street, remembering what they'd heard at their last inn stay. This innkeep was spindly, with a hollowed-out face, but he kept his books in order and the two rooms he gave them were clean enough at first glance. Sullenly, Sansa disappeared into her own room as soon as the innkeep had gone and barred the door behind her. _Just fine._ Sandor had work to do.

He changed into the less-soiled tunic he had forgotten was bunched in the bottom of the saddlebag and fastened his sword belt tightly around him, then set out of the room. Sansa's door was still closed tightly. For a moment, he thought to take her along with him and allow her to browse the marketplace while he bartered but the thought the better of it and left her door shut and barred.

The harbour was crowded with people when he arrived but most ducked and scurried around him once they took note of his heavy-plated steel armour and the longsword at his hip; most of the sailors and captains and merchants who occupied the dock were unarmed. As the day wore on, he found that this fear did him well: most answered whatever questions he asked him quickly and without protest.

By the time the sky had started to turn pink, he had managed to find a Pentoshi carrack headed home after a successful shipment of persimmons and pomegranates. Its captain was a copper-skinned, slick-bearded man with watery, shifting black eyes who took Sandor's golden dragons and told him to return on the morrow. He was of an untrustworthy lot, Sandor decided, but his price was not too high and he promised an isolated cabin with a good lock and a quick, smooth journey. Besides, he was leaving as soon as possible. The sooner that Sansa left Westeros, the less likely she was to be captured and brought to Cersei Lannister and mounted on a spike upon the parapets along with her father.

Relatively sated with his work, Sandor made his way back to the inn at a reasonable pace. Despite the setting sun, the merchants peddling their wares in the marketplace were still calling out prices and offers from their stalls. As he plodded through the crowd, he allowed his gaze to drift over the stalls and found a shock of blue ribbon that caught his eye. Sansa was behaving like a mewling child, that was for certain, but a softer part of Sandor could not exactly blame her for her reluctance to leave her home. Westeros had only ever offered him pain and strife but he knew that once her world had been filled with flowers and songs and lovely dresses and parents who loved her and a castle full of smallfolk who worshipped her. Her sadness was understandable. Perhaps the ribbon would cheer her up.

It had been an undeniably foolish decision to let her keep her flowing, distinctly-blood-red Tully hair at the beginning of the journey, but they had made it this far without being noticed. There would be no need for her to cover her head when they were at sea. The ribbon was a pale water-blue and edged with delicate white embroidery and it would please her greatly, he decided. The merchant he bought it from gave him sly, knowing eyes when he passed her his coppers and he hissed at her in return and closed his hand around the delicate piece of cloth with a tentative unease.

By the time Sandor returned to the inn, the sun had dripped beneath the clouds and the sky was almost completely purple. He rapped on Sansa's door with confidence the first time, apprehension the second and flat-out worry the third. When she didn't answer any of the knocks, he turned the handle hastily and found it unlocked.

The room was small and rectangular, housing a canopied bed, a large window and not much else. There was a faded brown stain on the bed where something had been spilled, Sandor noted with displeasure. Perhaps he'd have the girl switch with him. Then he looked around further and felt his throat catch: there was no girl to switch with. The room was empty.

Sansa was gone.


End file.
